The Burnt Heart (or The One in Which There is Magic)
by PuffofLogic
Summary: Magic AU. Mycroft's been meddling in affairs again and John's the one who's inconvenienced. Lestrade's got a human sacrifice on his hands and Sherlock's not being much help. And now Moriarty's back with powerful friends. Takes place between The Hounds Of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall.
1. In Which Things Are Not Quite Right

John was pecking at the keys of his laptop, finishing up his retelling of Sherlock's latest case. Absently he sipped his tea and gave a quick "'lo" to Sherlock as the dark haired man entered the living room.

"Tea," Sherlock said in passing, heading to his bedroom and shucking out of his coat and scarf on the way.

John sighed, then stood quickly and returned from the kitchen a few moments later with a cup. He went into Sherlock's room and placed the cup on his bedside table. Then he moved back to the door.

Sherlock stood at his closet and stretched, cracking his neck and shoulders. The tea was snatched up and thrown back like a shot. Sherlock blew out a breath and started to dig through his clothes.

Pausing at the door, John turned, "Everything alright, Sherlock?"

"...Hm? Oh. Yes. Fine." He was throwing articles out of the closet like a dog digging through a yard after a bone.

"All right. Well," John headed back to the living room, "I'll be reading then."

"Mmm...no. Get my phone. Left outside pocket in my coat."

"Fine, right." John returned again. He offered Sherlock his mobile. "Anything else, or..?"

"Something stronger than tea is necessary." Blowing out a sigh and scrubbing his hands through his hair, he looked up at the ceiling and blinked several times in succession. "I'm at a very crucial stage in the Pointe murder case."

"I really don't think you need something stronger than tea, Sherlock." John looked worriedly at his friend.

"Thank you for your opinion, but it's completely irrelevant. I need something, _get _me something." He needed to stay focused. Awake. Just a day or two more...he had leads.

Damnit. Without a word, John left and went to his room, dug through his medical bag and found what he was looking for. He went back to Sherlock, offering a bottle of pills. "I don't want you do take these, Sherlock. But if you do, take one, eat something, and then take another one no sooner than three hours later. It'll help keep you awake and functioning." John didn't look at Sherlock as he spoke. He seemed almost ashamed, but offered the pills nonetheless.

Sherlock stood there for a long moment just staring at the bottle in John's hand. Then up at John's face. He'd expected an argument or an exasperated 'no'. This was completely unexpected and unlike John. Offering a former addict drugs. Well... take every opportunity as it presented itself. Sherlock took the bottle from John's hand and, against all advice, dumped a few in his hand and swallowed them dry. "Thank you. Coming out with me?" Bottle tossed onto the bed and back to digging in the closet.

John clenched his fists at his sides. "Dammit, Sherlock. ...Where are you going?"

"Just down Randolph. There was a fire. They tried to burn the evidence... what did you give me, by the way?"

"Acute asthma medication. And no, I'm staying here. I'm going to finish my tea, finish my blog and go to bed." John turned and walked stiffly to the door.

"Ah. Ephedrine, then. Interesting that you keep that in your kit." Aha! Pulling out a filtered breathing mask from his closet, he spun it round his finger by the straps. "I do have two of these, you know. You're perfectly fine with setting me loose in a half-burned building, blood pressure ready to skyrocket?"

John rubbed his face with his hands. "Fine, I'll come. But only to make sure you survive the night." This was not going well. Mycroft had tried to convince him the whole thing was for Sherlock's protection and he'd already given him unnecessary medication and was now going to follow him to an arson fire. Brilliant.

Fantastic. Sherlock's lips twitched up once in amusement and satisfaction in just having gotten his way. He tossed the mask at John.

Playing with the mask in his hands John said, "Just so we're clear, Sherlock; those pills were a one-time thing. " John followed his flat mate out into the hallway and pulled on his jacket.

Sherlock had produced another mask, tying on his scarf and putting his coat on. Already, he was starting to feel jittery. Not quite as strong as he would like, but strong enough to see this through. Heading down to the curb, he hailed a taxi, jumping in and keeping the door open for John. Of course they would have to get out before getting to the official scene, roped off with police tape and still smoldering in places.

John shook his head at Sherlock's silence and made a mental note to check the man's pulse every half hour. Idiot. Damn Mycroft. He followed Sherlock into the cab and shut the door. Staring out the window as Sherlock stated the address; he began to wonder if there was anything he could do to get rid of the geis. This was clearly good for neither him nor Sherlock. He'd check some books once they returned to 221B.

"With me, John. Put the mask on and act like you belong here. No one will say a word." The light was already back in his eyes, an energetic spring to his gait. He donned his own mask, ducking under the crime scene tape as they arrived two blocks of walking later.

John nodded and pulled on the mask, adjusting it carefully. It was nice to see his friend up and running about again, but John felt his heart twinge with guilt knowing that it was all medication. Medication _he _had given the man. Damn it to hell.

Sherlock wasn't careful when he went into the charred remains of the building. It was a dangerous place to be for anyone and here he was tromping about and scanning for evidence. Most everything would have been burned, but there had to have been _something_! He crouched in the ashes closer to the source of the fire and dug through the water-sodden mess, breathing loudly into the mask. "I have reason to believe that it was the elderly parents who murdered their three adult children. They were controlling parents, even having them sign their death benefits over to them. If I could find the papers that would be enough proof..."

John heard the creaking support beams before he saw them fall. "Sherlock!" He dove at the man, managing to knock him clear and taking only a glancing blow to his shoulder. Unfortunately it was his wounded shoulder and he gasped out in pain. Grabbing it, he groaned. Then he noticed the safe that had fallen from above. "Sherlock, there."

His eyes were wide with the thrill of panic that had gone through him as John knocked him aside. For a moment, he feared that John would have taken a full on blow from the falling support beams and bits of floor. Yes. The safe! There! But... "Are you all right?!"

John nodded, face tight with pain. "Fine. Let's get out of here." He pulled himself up slowly, cradling his arm and shoulder.

"I have to get into that safe. Don't focus on the pain. Get out if you need to. Wait for me on the street." Zipping over to the safe through the debris, he started to work with it. It was still hot to the touch and he didn't have the combination... a challenge.

Leave Sherlock in a still smoldering building? Not bloody likely. "I don't need to, Sherlock. I want to stay." Despite his words, he found himself moving toward the street. "Sherlock!"

Odd... John was leaving even though it looked like he very much didn't want to. Sherlock's eyes narrowed just a bit in suspicion before going back to fiddling with the safe. Pressing his face against the safe to listen to the tumblers shifting was not an option. He looked around for something to try and jimmy it open.

Oh no,nononono. John found himself increasing the distance between himself and his flatmate until the latter was out of sight. He stood on the street, waiting impatiently. Lestrade pulled up and jumped out of the flashing police car. "Lestrade!" John shouted to the man, "Lestrade, Sherlock's in there! Please get him out, drag him if you have to!" Lestrade looked startled but waved a few officers to follow him and headed into the damp smoke.

After that, Sherlock was dragged out by both arms struggling. "No! You have to get the contents of that safe! Let go of me you bumbling idiots!" ...of course his voice was muffled by the mask, so it was less effective. After he'd had enough, he slipped out of his coat so that they no longer had hold of him, only the sleeves of the wool garment. "Get the safe!"

"All right, ALL RIGHT! Sherlock, get the hell out of that mess, we'll get the bloody safe!" Lestrade was looking more and more angry. "What the hell are you even doing in there?"

"The EVIDENCE, you moron!"

Lestrade was at least a little taken aback. "...Sherlock. Are you... God, no. Are you _high_?!"

Suddenly able to move, John rushed forward and grabbed at Sherlock's wrist. 180/80. Way way _way_ too high. "Sherlock, with me. We need to get you calmed down. Lestrade will take care of it." He forcibly pulled the taller man away from the excitement and down the block a ways before hailing a cab. "Sherlock, you need to calm down."

Ripping off the mask, Sherlock took a great gulp of the fresh night air and tried to pull his wrist away from John. "I'm fine. I'm _great_ as a matter of fact. I'll be even better once I have the evidence in my hands, those idiots won't even know what to look for!"

"Sherlock!" John grabbed both his wrists despite the pain it caused him and pulled them down to his sides. Looking the man in the eyes, he said, "It doesn't matter, Sherlock. Lestrade will save everything for you and we'll get it sorted tomorrow. If you don't relax, I'm taking you to the emergency room. Alright?"

"What? Why would you be taking me to the emergency room?" He was struggling to get his wrists out of John's grip at first, but then tried to be mindful of his injury. "You should probably be headed to hospital but I am fine."

"You're about to go into cardiac arrest, Sherlock! Stop. Moving." John pressed the other man to the wall of the building behind them and held him there. When Sherlock stopped fighting him, John placed two fingers to his neck and checked his watch. After a few more minutes of this, he released Sherlock and rubbed his brow. "Fine. Can we go home now?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stood and took it calmly, going through a deep breathing exercise until John was placated. "Since you've effectively gotten me kicked off the crime scene, I suppose that's the only option, hm?" Chest pain was minimal. Still high energy. Angry but still taking deep breaths so that John wouldn't force him against a wall again. Transport was fine as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Yes. Good." John nodded and hailed a cab successfully this time, inviting Sherlock to go in first as if worried the detective might run off. "221B Baker St, thanks." The doctor kept an eye on Sherlock as he angrily texted Lestrade about the safe. Stretching his shoulder carefully, John pulled out his own phone and sent a text to Mycroft.

[Your brilliant plan almost got Sherlock killed tonight. Well done there. JW]

He didn't expect a reply but at least he was making his annoyance known.

"Stop watching me like I'm about to fit. It's annoying." He kept his eyes on his phone, still shooting annoyed messages back and forth with the DI, who kept bringing up drugs. "I'll tell you if I've ever taken too much of a stimulant to handle. This is nothing."

John's eye slid off of Sherlock and he sighed. 'Yeah, except you're an idiot and I'm the doctor. I'll explain things to Lestrade later, just stop insulting the man."

"He's the idiot. He believes I'm back under the influence of cocaine. As much as I would have liked a clean syringe and a seven-percent solution, he has it wrong. Again." Huffing, he dropped his phone in his lap.

"Well what is he supposed to think, Sherlock? That I gave you Ephedrine?" John heard the guilt in his own voice. "And don't talk like that. You've been clean for over a year." His phone buzzed at him and John was surprised to see he had a text.

[Give it time. You'll be more use to him like this. MH]

The blond seethed and furiously responded

[I'm his _friend_, Mycroft, not his servant! And since when has Sherlock had any idea about what was best for him? JW]

"Why are you texting Mycroft?" ...because John got a very particular look on his face when he was speaking to Mycroft. That and it was time to change the subject.

"What? I'm not." John looked up startled and stuck his phone into his pocket. At the look on Sherlock's face he capitulated. "Alright, I was. It doesn't matter, Sherlock. Nothing that would interest you." Okay, first outright lie. John held his breath and looked out the window hoping Sherlock would let it go and knowing that it was nearly impossible that he would.

"Nothing that would interest me, you say..." Sherlock looked out his own window and let it go for a few seconds. Then: "Stop the cab! I fancy a jog back to Baker Street. Maybe even a hard run."

The cab pulled over and Sherlock had his hand on the door handle, positioning himself to jump out.

His eyes wide, John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "No way, Sherlock. Not a chance. We're taking a nice relaxing ride back to the flat and then putting you to bed with some chamomile." He spoke to the cabbie. "Please continue. My friend here is drunk."

The door opened. No way for the cabbie to continue with the door opened. "I don't fancy a relaxing ride and I hate chamomile. I also don't fancy being lied to. Last chance to come clean, John."

"Fine! Sherlock, get back in the cab!" John held his phone out to the man. "Look through it if you like. I don't care. Just sit down. Please."

"That would be tedious." Sherlock did sit back and shut the cab door. "Tell me what's going on."

Shitshitshit. If it hadn't been an order... "I was talking to Mycroft about this...thing he did to me to help you. I told him it almost got you killed and he said to "give it time" and that I'd be more use to you now. I politely told him he was a moron and so were you." John managed to stop speaking. He didn't look at Sherlock and was glad there were only a few more awkward minutes in the cab.

"A 'thing' that he did to you." Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John expectantly. Slowly, slowly a smile curled onto his face. The 'I've worked it out' face. "John, touch your nose with your little finger."

John's face froze in a mix of panic and embarrassment. He put his finger up and touched his nose, then shoved his hand quickly back into his pocket. "It's nothing, Sherlock. Leave it."

"No, no. Touch your little finger to your nose and leave it there until I tell you to stop."

His eyes closed tight, John lifted his hand again and put one finger to his nose. "Damnit Sherlock,' He muttered under his breath.

"Tell me how brilliant I am."

John rolled his eyes, "You're really very brilliant, Sherlock."

"Why on earth did Mycroft think this was a good idea?"

"I don't know! He seemed to think this would help protect you. I can't see how." John pulled a face which, as his finger was still against his nose, came across more silly than expected.

"Very convenient, however. Later tonight, we're going over the evidence I already have and following a second lead. We can't afford to waste time on this case. You can stop touching your nose now, John."

Looking at the detective in surprise, John wondered if that was the end of it. If Sherlock was able to refocus on the case at hand; that would give John time to sort out his own problem. As the cab came to a stop, John bounded out and left Sherlock to pay. He run up to the door and pulled it open, running up the stairs and into his own room and slamming the door shut behind him.

Unusual, but Sherlock let it be. John would be left alone for a few hours while Sherlock researched.


	2. In Which There are Cabs and a Crash

Sometime later, John's phone chimed with a message Sherlock knew would get an immediate response.

[May be having a heart attack. Come quickly. SH]

"Sherlock?!" John stumbled out of the hallway and into the living room. He stopped short at the sight of Sherlock just sitting at his laptop. "You're..?" His mouth became a thin line and he shook his head, "You can't just _do _that, Sherlock!"

"Apparently I can." He snapped the lid of the laptop closed, quirked the corner of his mouth up briefly and stood up. "You can still check me over before we go if you like. Unless you aren't coming. Your shoulder is injured, after all."

Frowning, John came forward and looked Sherlock over, taking his pulse again before nodding and stepping away. "Where are you going?"

"Going out to have a little chat with a few suspicious persons. They'll probably try and run when they see me. They may even be expecting me."

John eyed his flat mate, "Will it be dangerous? You still shouldn't get your heart rate up. I told you to only take one of the damned pills!"

"Of course it will be dangerous. I'll probably have to break in. You're still acting like I can't handle stimulants."

"And you're still acting like I'm not a doctor! Whether you can 'handle' them or not is not the issue!" John interrupted himself. "Fine, I'm coming with."

"Then what is the issue, John? Besides the fact that you must do whatever I say. Understand that you're going into this with the knowledge that I could order you to do something you won't like."

John stiffened at Sherlock's words and his eyes flashed. "The issue is, _Sherlock,_ that you're going to _kill _yourself. And don't even try to deny it; you've nearly done at other times." John ignored the detective's final statement, knowing there was no answer he could give that would convey all his feelings about the situation.

"Then I suppose your job is to ensure that I don't kill myself tonight since you're so very worried about it." Sherlock slipped back into his coat but forewent the scarf, feeling a little too warm to wear it. "This may go very well and this may go very badly."

John pulled on his jacket and closed the door behind them. "Let's aim for 'very well' all right?"

"Always." Smirking, Sherlock stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi, then gave instructions to take them to a rather shady address while taking out a pen and a notepad, scribbling a few words on it. He folded up the note and put it into his pocket, staring out the window.

"What's that?" John eyed the note, "And how many people are we talking about?"

"Best case scenario, two. Worst case scenario, they're expecting us and there will be more. The money that came from the death benefits was for more than a nice retirement fund for the parents. The part of the iceberg you cannot see from the surface of the water, as it were."

Nodding, John thought about that for a moment, "...and the note?" He hadn't really be paying attention to the case, being preoccupied with his own issue but now, John found himself getting worked up over these deaths.

"For a member of the homeless network in the area." Tapping his fingers against his knee, Sherlock fidgeted anxiously. The information he would get from this lead would ultimately prove him right. Case closed. If the information could not be acquired he'd have to find a new lead from new research. The note would be his backup plan in case things went badly.

"Ah." John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. "Stop fidgeting. Sit still." He looked out the window to gauge where they were then turned back to Sherlock, "And-uh, what'll I be doing?"

The nudge only served to annoy him. How was he supposed to sit still when he was anxious to get there and they were _this_ close to solving the case? "Watching my back. Making certain I don't kill myself, remember?"

"Right." John waited while Sherlock jumped out of the cab to give the note to a man by a dumpster. His phone buzzed again.

[How are things going? MH]

John rolled his eyes and was startled by another message:

[And no cheek, I'm simply concerned MH]

Peeking out the windows of the cab, John looked for any security cameras then gave up and replied:

[Sherlock knows JW].

Sherlock jumped back into the cab, the familiar gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Ready? We're nearly there. We're going to need to be quick about it and very careful. If things go badly, you'll need to let me do the talking."

"Yes, ready." John nodded firmly and checked his phone again, [Of course MH]. Damn this family. He didn't bother replying and tucked his phone away; making sure his gun was within reach. "Ready." He repeated.

"Pay the cabbie, John." Sherlock hopped out of the cab and started down the sidewalk, looking down the length of an alley and waiting impatiently.

Pulling a face, John dug some bills from his pocket and followed Sherlock quickly. "That is not going to become a habit," he muttered to the taller man.

"Oh? As I see it, you don't have a choice." Punishment for listening to Mycroft, apparently. As John caught up, Sherlock started down the alley with a quick stride, looking around every corner before turning them.

"Oh, we are not finished with that conversation," John fell silent after that final note and, keeping his hand on his gun, John followed Sherlock. He kept close and made sure to search around for himself whenever they found themselves in a new alleyway.

"I believe we are. Now be quiet, we're approaching our destination." There was a plain metal door situated in a wider part of the alley they were currently walking down. Sherlock walked himself right up to it and tested it... unlocked, swinging open without any force. He looked behind himself at John, letting him know with his expression that this was a bad sign.

John readied his gun and moved to stand at the other side of the doorway. He waited for Sherlock's cue.

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded, swinging the door open and dashing inside. The first room appeared to be empty, a single bare bulb lighting it. Grey concrete walls. Stained grey concrete floor. A workbench and some rubbish. Not much to look at. Another door lead deeper into the building. Sherlock moved towards it, whispering: "They may have already cleared out. Hopefully my informant was correct."

John's face showed that he wasn't too keen on Sherlock's 'hopefully' but checked the room over then moved by Sherlock, his heart beating quickly. He watched as Sherlock pulled at the door and a shock of sudden insight went through him. "Get down!" He shouted, pointing the gun at the widening gap.

Oh. They'd been expecting them. Eyes widening, he jumped away from the opening just as two men with larger guns came bursting through. It did prove that this was a weapon smuggling operation, but ... Oh, no. A thrill of fear. John was a crack shot, but they were outnumbered. "John!" There was no chance of him letting John be killed. Dropping low, Sherlock tried to disable one of the gunmen by knocking him off his feet.

John fired twice, one he knew was a kill shot, but the other just grazed the man coming through. He heard Sherlock shout and tackled the man Sherlock had tripped. Cracking the man on the skull once, John stood again to see Sherlock with a gun at his head. "No!" He raised his gun again as fear ripped through him. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock slowly raised his hands, knowing what was behind him because he felt the cold metal pressing into the back of his head. And John had said he shouldn't get his heart rate up. Too late now. "You really shouldn't do that."

"I really, really want to, _genius_. See how pretty your smart little brain is splattered all over the walls."

"You wouldn't make it two steps out of that door before being taken down by government agents." Sherlock hoped his bluff would work.

"Oh, yeah? Put the gun down, shorty! Unless you really want to see your friend's head pop like a balloon fulla red gelatin."

Scowling, John, lowered his weapon, and set it slowly on the floor putting his hands up. "Fine, see, I'm unarmed. Just take your gun from his head, please. I'm sure we can sort this out." He saw Sherlock's disapproving gaze and knew that he was supposed to let Sherlock do the talking, but the detective seemed a bit busy with a pistol to his head. "We-uh, I heard this was the place to get guns, I was sent from the stock house in Italy..." The man didn't seem to be buying it. "All right. I'm not even sure what we're doing here. This man is no friend of mine. How could he be? Look at him. Clearly gay. A complete sociopath. Grade A arse. And that's just after five minutes with him."

John let himself rant for a few minutes about all Sherlock's short comings, real or imagined. "So yeah, you' be doing me a favor, shoot him." John put down his arms and bent down to get his gun again, clicking the safety on and secured it in the back of his trousers under his jacket. "I mean really, as if there were police outside. As if anyone would work willingly with this man." The gun man had been confused at first, then seemed to be enjoying John's stripping down of Sherlock, his hold loosened on the gun as Sherlock didn't respond or move. "Cheers, mate. Have fun with that," John reached toward the man for a handshake and when he'd gripped it, Sherlock spun around and grabbed the gun. John, meanwhile, twisted the man's wrist and pulled him to the floor.

Sherlock kicked the man onto his back and stamped his foot down on his stomach while pointing the gun down at him, breathing heavily. The threat of death was a good motivator to make the human body sweat. "Now, I'm going to ask you a few very simple questions. You're going to answer each of them truthfully. For every time you tell me you don't know, I'll put a bullet in you. Do you understand?"

The man nodded, teeth grit. His wrist was broken and he was in a good deal of pain and fear.

"Where is Alberta Pointe?"

"E-East End. I swear to God, they didn't tell me where! Just...the East End!"

"Not good enough." Sherlock frowned and lowered the gun to point at the man's genitals.

"Old Church Road! Old Church Road! Swear to God! That's all I know!"

John felt the adrenaline pumping as he watched Sherlock. His own gun was again out and trained on the man but his eyes stayed on the detective. Sherlock was angry. He saw the signs in the particularly heartless way he treated the downed man. There was a twinge in his chest as he realized Sherlock had taken some of his ranted insults as truth. He would have to explain later, assuming his flat mate would let him.

"If I find out you're wrong..." Sherlock crouched down close to the man, pressing the gun against his temple. "I will come back for you. It will not be a quick death...and you will learn what a sociopath _really _is." His tone was something out of a horror movie, the man's teeth chattering with the panic he felt. The smell of urine from the man voiding his bladder caused Sherlock to make a face and pull back, the gun still aimed. Without signaling John, he turned and left the building, gun still in hand.

Hurrying after him, John tossed a glance that was almost pity at the gunman on the floor. "Sherlock! Hold on!" He stopped short at Sherlock's back in the alleyway. "Are you-are you all right?"

Flicking the safety on, Sherlock put the gun away into his coat. He was still breathing hard, but kept walking and ignored John's question.

"Sherlock!" John ran up to the taller man and grabbed his shoulder, turning him around. "Sherlock, stop. You know that was all an act, right?" He had to know. God, if John had actually _hurt_ Sherlock...

Sherlock looked at John in a way that said he was really looking through him. Wiping sweat from his brow he huffed out a breath. "I'm going to the East End. I have an idea of where on Old Church Road Mrs. Pointe will be."

Reaching up, John grabbed Sherlock's shirt collar and forced him to meet his eyes. "Sherlock. Call Lestrade. He'll sort it out." Despite Sherlock's protests, John put two fingers to his neck. "Your heart rate is insane. You need to sit down and breathe."

Allowing himself the luxury, Sherlock leaned against the alley wall and leaned his head back against it just breathing. "I can't. Not when I'm so close to solving the case!"

"Fine, give me ten minutes of calming down. Then we'll go." John leaned against the wall next to him. "And Sherlock, those things I said, I didn't mean any of them."

"Five." Regardless, Sherlock slid down to sit on the ground, trying to slow his heart rate. It didn't seem to want to slow with the amount of adrenaline still in his system. "Oh? Didn't you?"

"Five." John agreed and crouched next to his flat mate. "And no, I didn't Sherlock. It was a ruse. To get that moron to lose his focus. And it worked."

"Clearly gay. No friend of yours." He rubbed a hand over his chest, closing his eyes and breathing calmly. "Grade A arse."

"Yes, Sherlock. I said those things. And _no_, I didn't mean them." John sighed and put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and the other to his neck again.

He didn't immediately say he was fine. Maybe he wanted John to feel guilty or worried. Maybe he wasn't feeling fine. "If you say so."

"Damnit Sherlock. The one time you actually listen to me..." John took his hand away. "All right, we can go."

Sherlock blew out a sigh. Was it worth it to put John and himself in danger again? No doubt there would be more thugs with guns waiting for them. He was tiring suddenly and the case was solved, only the apprehension remained... "Get my phone. Call Lestrade. Tell him where our gunman said to find Mrs. Pointe. Tell him the operation is weapons dealing."

John didn't argue as he pulled out Sherlock's mobile and dialed up Lestrade. "Yeah, Sherlock found her. She's at the East End, Old Church Road. They're weapons dealing, so be prepared." He waited for Lestrade's acknowledgment then hung up and offered Sherlock his good arm to help him stand. "Now what's the plan?"

"Go home." Sherlock ignored the arm offered to him for support and stood on his own. Not that he was going to admit it to John or to himself, but he was feeling more worn down. Not good.

This wasn't good. "Sherlock, are you all right?" John squinted at him in the dark, "You're awfully pale... Here." He grabbed Sherlock's elbow and they walked together to the street where John set Sherlock against a street lamp while he waved down a cab. "All right, in ya go. Come on. 221B Baker street."

Sherlock shuffled into the cab without much protest. He'd been so adamant about finishing the case himself not ten minutes ago and now he was letting himself be lead around by John. No scathing comments. No token protests. Just maybe he'd overdone it.

John was worried. Sherlock hadn't spoken since his plan to 'go home'. He put a hand against Sherlock's forehead, then against his neck and felt his pulse far slower than it had been. Very slow..."Sherlock, we're here. Come on." He half supported, half lifted Sherlock's lean frame from the cab and reached awkwardly into his pocket for a few bills. Then he helped his friend into the flat and up the stairs. Lowering the detective onto the couch, John made a cup of strong coffee and gave it to the exhausted man. "You're coming down from the ephedrine, Sherlock. Drink this."

"First you want me to relax and then you give me coffee." He took the coffee just for the creature comfort of the warmth it gave his hands but he made no move to drink it. His stomach was not happy with him. His entire transport was not happy with him. The crash was always the worst part of any high no matter how useful it was. It could also have explained why he'd reacted so badly to John's distraction speech.

John ducked his head, "I know, I'm sorry Sherlock, this is my fault. If I wouldn't have given you the damn pills...!" He straightened then sat in his own chair, keeping a close watch on his friend. "You're going to be all right, though. I'm sorry."

Putting the cup of coffee down onto the coffee table and leaving it untouched, Sherlock laid back with his head on the armrest. Five days on a case was perhaps a few too many under the circumstances. "You really shouldn't have let Mycroft do that 'thing' to you."

John snorted. "I'm not actually sure I had a choice, Sherlock." He looked at his shoes. "He said that if you were ever in trouble, it would help. I would help. I'm not sure I understand it all but... If it saves your life once, it's worth it." John glanced up from under his brow.

"Hm." Sherlock didn't respond other than the noise of acknowledgement. An utterance of some sort left him as he shifted and let his head roll to the side, his arm dangling off the side of the couch. Even if his transport was no longer responding, his mind was running through the possibilities of how John obeying his every direct order could potentially save his life. Maybe it would be useful to save John's life someday...

"That doesn't mean, though, that I'm not going to try to find a way to get rid of it. You almost died today because I just walked away when you told me to. I don't know what I'd do if...something happened that I could've protected you from." John looked to the opposite wall, avoiding the thought. "And sometimes you are a grade A arse." John waited for Sherlock to turn to him frowning, then he smirked, "but you're my grade A arse, yeah?"

A stretch of silence while John expected a response. Sherlock could still hear him and was still listening, transport simply was not responding to his commands to open eyes and move. Taking the ephedrine had been a poor choice in retrospect, but at the time he had needed the energy and the focus.

After a length of time, John frowned. "Sherlock?" When no response came he jumped up and dragged Sherlock into a sitting position. "_Shit_, Sherlock. Come on." He stood the man up with difficulty and had him walk back and forth across the room. The coffee had cooled enough that John could get it down Sherlock's throat. "Come on Sherlock, stay with me."

"M'fine," he muttered, trying to walk along with John when he was forced up even though it was the last thing on earth his transport wanted him to do. He could hear the worry in John's voice and wondered why. Why was John so worried about him passing out? Any other person would probably just let him rest and figure that he would sleep it off. Being force-fed coffee was just one more unpleasant thing. His stomach was protesting the addition. "I'm...right here...what's wrong?"

"You're not fine, Sherlock. I need you to stay awake for a bit longer, can you do that for me?" John moved the two of them into the kitchen and got a glass of water that he tilted into Sherlock's mouth, heedless of the mess.

"What? ...Why? You're always telling me to sleep." He was silenced with the glass of water, grateful at least for that. He knew he was dehydrated and probably needed a few more glasses of water. It helped his stomach to settle greatly.

"Sherlock, just do as I say. Please." John got another glass of water for the man after he had sucked down the last one. "MRS. HUDSON!" John shouted down the stairs.

"Tell me what's wrong." Of course he didn't like doing things just for the sake of doing them if he didn't know why. "Why ...are you shouting? It's after midnight."

"Sherlock, you're not okay. We need to get some food in you and get you hydrated. If you pass out on me before that, I'm taking you to the hospital for a drip. And I know how much you hate that, hm?" John realized he needed to calm himself down as well. He should be thinking more clearly than this.

"Mm. I've been on the case for five days." John was probably right, but couldn't it wait until he'd had some proper rest? He didn't want to wake up in a hospital, that much was certain... oh! He could just order John around in his favor, couldn't he?

"What's all the noise about?" Mrs. Hudson had climbed the stairs in her nightie and dressing gown, frowning in irritation. "Was someone calling me?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I need some help with Sherlock! If you could grab some biscuits or toast or something that would be lovely!" John's voice was strained. "Yes, Sherlock, I know, and I don't think you've eaten or slept in those five days. And it's catching up with you." He filled another glass of water. Sherlock was hypoglycemic and definitely dehydrated, crashing hard. It would be dangerous to let him just pass out now.

Mrs. Hudson made a put out noise, frowning at John. "I've told you several times, I'm your landlady, not your..." ...and upon seeing Sherlock, she stopped and approached, putting a hand on his face and becoming more matronly. "Oh, what have you gone and done now?"

"Oh, God...both of you, just leave me alone."

"Oh, dear." She tutted and huffed, looking at John. "Low blood sugar, then? He's awfully cranky. I'll go and get those biscuits."

"Thank you," John said, relieved to have someone on his side. Unfortunately Sherlock's slurred speech was still enough for John to set him down on a chair and walk away from the man into the living room. Frustrated as his inability to get close, John shouted, "Sherlock, you bloody idiot! Let me help you!"

"Do not take me to hospital," Sherlock spoke again, putting his head down on the kitchen table. It felt too heavy to hold up. Five days wasn't his record for staying awake and on a case, but the addition of a drug crash had apparently pushed him over the edge of his endurance. "Agree to that term and you may help me."

"Dammit Sherlock! I agree! I won't take you to the hospital." Suddenly freed, John rushed back in and stood his friend up again to keep him awake. "How are you feeling?" John hoped the water could flush out his system and rehydrate him quickly enough. If he could get some food in him... Ah, and there was Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you so much." He grabbed a biscuit from her tray and broke off a bit to put in Sherlock's mouth. As Mrs. Hudson was about to leave with a worried look, John leaned over and whispered to her, "I may need you to call a cab to the hospital if he doesn't improve. I'll let you know."

The landlady gave a little nod and put her finger to her nose. She waved a little wave at Sherlock, "Feel better now, dear, will you?" And then she was gone, heading down to her own flat.

Not dignifying John's question with a response, Sherlock chewed the bit of biscuit in his mouth and swallowed the morsel. Not happy with being stood up and fed like an invalid...although he did eat the biscuit, piece by piece. Drank water when the glass was pressed to his lips again. Ate another half of a biscuit, turning his face away in protest when he couldn't handle more. Nausea was rearing its ugly head. "Take me to bed."

John sighed, but did feel better that Sherlock was coherent again and had eaten something. "Fine Sherlock, come on. There ya go." The two men hobbled into Sherlock's room and John laid him down on the bed. John pulled off the detective's shoes and made sure his shirt collar wasn't too tight. Then he covered the man over and sat nearby as his friend finally drifted into sleep.

It was difficult to fully drift to sleep when Sherlock's mind was this active. Five days of constant planning, ruminating and researching while on high alert tended to not be conducive to deep sleeping. He kept jerking awake again every few minutes. "John...if you're so worried and only going to sit there monitoring me, get into bed with me." John could rest and monitor him at the same time comfortably. It made sense.

John lifted his head in surprise. "I don't think that's necessary, Sherlock..." His voice trailed off as he stood and moved toward the bed, sitting sideways before scooting himself in next to Sherlock. He had to admit, this was more comfortable than sitting in that hard chair for the rest of the night but it did make staying awake more difficult. John gave an internal shrug and decided to make the best of the situation. He rubbed Sherlock's shoulders when the man jerked awake and shushed him softly until the doctor felt his friend's breathing even out. Then John could finally relax enough to join him in sleep.


	3. In Which There is Experimentation

Sherlock wasn't exactly a cuddler, but John was a source of warmth and Sherlock was out cold. Sometime during the night (early morning now, really), Sherlock had turned over and captured one of John's arms in his, curling around it like a small child hugging a teddy. His grip was fairly solid for a sleeping man and he didn't seem inclined to let go.

So John stayed. He made sure Sherlock was still breathing and comfortable and laid there thinking of his own problem now that his friend was safe. His phone had buzzed a while ago but John was unable to reach it without disturbing Sherlock; something he was loath to do. His stomach began growling after a while and he started hoping Sherlock would let go and allow him to make breakfast or at least tea.

It didn't seem likely. Five days of nonstop no food, no sleep and a drug crash at the end had the detective conked out into oblivion and if left alone, he'd likely sleep through the day and into the next. Not healthy, but his body didn't seem ready to give up on sleep for any reason. An earthquake may or may not have woken him.

After a short while more, John realized that a power more urgent than hunger necessitated his rising. He tried to ease him arm away from the sleeping man and when that didn't work he poked at Sherlock gently, "Sherlock...Sherlock...I need to use the loo...Sherlock..."

For a long, slow procession of time, Sherlock seemed to be dead and affected by rigor mortis for all of the movement he made. The grip on John's arm did not loosen even if his bladder was full and he became more persistent in his escape attempts. Eventually his grip was loose enough for John to escape, but it was only from John's attempts at prying his arm free. Sherlock still did not stir.

John was still rubbing at his arm when he reentered the room a few minutes later. He watched Sherlock's sleeping form, leaning against the doorway and found himself smiling at the unconscious detective. He turned and headed into the kitchen to start some tea and toast. Tea in hand, John checked his phone and found that Lestrade had texted him congratulating the duo on leading them to Alberta Pointe and asking about Sherlock. John slipped the phone back into his pocket and sat down at his laptop to find out more about this geis.

An unfamiliar sound and feeling filled the flat: peace. Quiet. The dust was actually having a chance to settle rather than being tossed about through the air as Sherlock paced a hole in the floor, blew up the kitchen, flopped on this or that piece of furniture or what have you. John was allowed his tea and breakfast while Sherlock slept the day away. As a matter of fact, John would be left to himself until that evening when there was a loud thud. Sherlock slowly lifted himself from the floor where he'd fallen and went to the loo. Did his business, washed his hands, cupped them under the faucet to get a drink and then right back to bed, flopping onto the duvet.

John started and looked up from the book he'd plucked from Sherlock's shelf. "Sherlock? You all right?" At the sound of running water, John figured his flatmate was still alive and went to make another couple slices of toast. John heard Sherlock return to the room and he followed the detective a few minutes later with a glass of water in one hand and a plate with toast and jam in the other. Setting both down on the bedside table, John sat again, his weight depressing the mattress and he gently shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock? Come on, now, you need to eat something."

There was a noise of complaint. Sherlock's body was telling him that it was still tired and hadn't slept long enough. Not that he ever made a habit of listening to transport, but its protests were fairly loud. Difficult not to listen when he couldn't keep his eyes open and there was no energy left in his limbs. He felt like they were made of lead, too. He just managed to press his face into the duvet and mutter a quick: "No."

Rolling his eyes, John pulled on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to turn him over. He had to stifle a laugh at the detective's response. The man was being more like a five-year-old than usual. "Sherlock, if you eat this I'll go away and let you sleep. But you have to eat this. All right? I'll never bother you again." John smirked, knowing Sherlock would have to respond to this blatant falsehood.

"What is it?" Blearily, Sherlock opened his bloodshot eyes and looked up at John. "...oh. You've brought me toast. Dull. Don't tempt me to order you never to bother me again." Yawning hugely, he started to try and push himself up to sit at least. "I'm going to want more than toast when I'm hungry. Which, by the way, is not right this moment. Sleep first unless you'd like to provide me with something else to wake me up."

John frowned, "What else would you like?" He looked down at the toast. That had been fairly decent of him, he had thought anyway. "And as if I'd have to tempt you, Sherlock." Raising an eyebrow, he offered the cup of water forcefully. "At least drink this. You've been asleep all day and your 'transport' is lacking."

Taking the water without protest, Sherlock drained the cup and studied John's face. There was a brief smirk before he closed his eyes again, feeling better for having the water. "I would say something complicated and fancy, but I'm not feeling that cruel." Another yawn. "Order Chinese takeaway. Lots of white rice and a few orders of curry. Then get something for yourself."

Felling his brow furrow again, John took the cup sharply and walked heavily into the living room. Grabbing his phone, John sent out the order and considered just waiting in the living room. Then, after a while of sitting, he remembered Lestrade's text. Sighing, he went into Sherlock's room again hoping the other man was still awake. "Sherlock? Lestrade texted, they found Alberta Pointe and evidence enough to make an arrest thanks to you. Many congratulations, though he's still wondering what you were on last night." John put a hand to his face, guiltily remembering his part in the escapade. He sank into the chair against the wall and looked questioningly at Sherlock, "What are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him? Why should I have to tell him anything? I handed him the answer to a triple homicide, insurance fraud and a gun smuggling operation. Why he insists on braying about drugs is beyond me." Sherlock stretched, waking up a bit more now that John was engaging him. Apparently the DI's opinion of him didn't matter, however. "You can tell him you didn't find any track marks. Beyond that, I don't care."

There was a knock at the door before John could retort and he settled for a glare tossed over his shoulder as he exited, answered the door and collected the order. "Are you going to eat in here? Or at the table like civilized folk?" He popped his head back into Sherlock's view, wondering where to set the boxes.

"Kitchen." Getting himself up, Sherlock stripped out of the clothes he'd slept in and started to get into his pyjamas. Apparently he had no intention of leaving the flat today if that was any indication.

John nodded and sat himself down, opening his own box enthusiastically while he waited for his flat mate. He had poured the man another glass of water and was back on his laptop, manipulating his chopsticks with one hand while the other scrolled with the mouse. He didn't look up when Sherlock came in, only gestured with his utensils to the place he'd set for him.

Sherlock stretched himself out, sat down heavily onto a chair at the kitchen table... and wolfed down the first box of white rice like a starved animal. Much was his way. Post-case binge of sleep and food. The second container of rice stood no chance against him either, this box actually covered in curry as he worked his way through it.

John paused in his research, food halfway to his mouth as he watched Sherlock devour his own food. He never got used to that. Most of the time Sherlock was like a plant, running solely on water and sunlight and whatever nutrients he could pull from the ground as he ran. Pulling himself together, John continued reading, keeping one eye on the detective to make sure he didn't choke.

He did choke. Only for a moment and easily solved with a drink of water, then right back to the plate in front of him, eating his way through two, three boxes of rice and curry. When he was finally finished, he set his chopsticks down and leaned back into his chair, running his hands over his forehead and temples. Headache. Why couldn't his transport just shut up and let him be?! He'd placated it with food and sleep, hadn't he?

After a short heart attack when Sherlock began violently coughing, John had sipped at his own water and waited for the other man to finish. Now he looked up and tilted his head, "Headache?" He grinned childishly, "And this is why drugs are bad, Sherlock. I'm sure we have something for it, but I'm tempted to let you suffer through it. You need to be more careful about how you treat yourself, yeah?" John closed the laptop partway and stood, walking over to Sherlock to check how he was recovering. Pleased that Sherlock had eaten, John was content to send him back to bed.

And Sherlock was tempted to order John to do something unpleasant to himself. The headache was just a dull ache for now, but it would probably get worse unless he did something else for his transport like lying down in the dark and trying to sleep again. "Why does my headache seem to amuse you so much?" Sighing out in irritation, Sherlock stood up, ignored the dizziness and pushed his chair in. "Confirmation of my humanity?"

"Something like that," John gave a little nod. "You always think you can just _do_ everything and life isn't like that," he started, becoming more inflamed as he spoke. "You need to sleep, you need to eat and you need to not take drugs to stay awake on cases! You're going to kill yourself one of these days and then what'll I do? The former blogger of the great detective Sherlock Holmes who tragically induced a heart attack and then choked to death on rice!" His breath was heavy to his ears when he finally stopped. He blinked, surprised at his own outburst.

Sherlock had strategically turned himself away so that John didn't see the wince. The headache had only intensified with the noise created by John's voice, the words unheeded. "Are you finished? Do you feel better for having properly nagged me?" They were both lucky that this wasn't a migraine. He'd rather like to keep everything that was in his stomach, thank you. "My life is none of your concern. You know how I operate so this should not be an issue. I don't eat when I'm on a case because it slows me down. Hunger keeps me sharp. Sleep is out of the question even if I'd wanted it. My mind is active, constantly active. That makes it difficult. Impossible, even. Just because you think I must function within specified parameters for human health does not mean I cannot stretch and reshape those boundaries as I train my transport." Inhale. Sigh. "Would you say I was unhealthy now for my habits? Hm?" As far as Sherlock was concerned, he was fit as could be.

John felt his sudden anger rising again, but he tried to control it into a harsh whisper, "Yes I would say you are unhealthy. You nearly collapsed three times last night and that was _after_ I pushed you out of the way of a falling support beam. Your life is very nearly my _only_ concern and if you'd stopped to think about _me_ once in a while rather than your damned cases, you'd know that!" Barely restraining himself from slamming his palms on the table, John stood up quickly and walked stiffly into the living room. "Go back to bed, Sherlock, for God's sake."

"How in the hell can you _care_ so much?" Honestly, Sherlock had no idea. The fact that he couldn't grasp something tore at him, causing him to follow John into the living room. "Really. _How_?"

Spinning around, John pointed a finger up at the taller man's face. "Because you're a great man, Sherlock! And I care about you! You do good things and I would like you to continue to do good things!"

Everyone else called Sherlock a freak or kept their cautious distance. No one would dare stay around him as John did or call him a good man. "You care so much, in fact, that you allow this to happen: stand on one foot." Sherlock huffed. "I thought I'd made it very clear to you that The Work is what truly matters to me." Good things that happened as a result of The Work were only circumstantial.

John's foot lifted automatically, and he reached out a hand to his chair in order to steady himself. His face flushed, but he stopped his argument at Sherlock's next words. Work was all that mattered. John felt something give way in his chest. The anger went out of him. Of course. Sagging against the chair, John wondered why he had expected anything different. He knew how Sherlock was.

There was a pause, a mote of understanding in Sherlock's eyes as he puzzled it out. When he spoke again, his tone was tentative: "I'll...allow you to doctor me more often and try to heed your advice, however." ...because if anything happened to John, Sherlock couldn't imagine his life without the man. That must be what John felt.

John gave a distracted nod at Sherlock's concession but the fight had left him.

Not good. Sherlock watched John's body language carefully and wasn't sure what to say to fix what he'd just done. Should he fix it? Wouldn't it be easier in the long run if John started to hate him? He valued John as a friend, though...his one and only friend. "I suppose it would be futile of me to order you to stop caring about me, wouldn't it? You can put your foot down now, by the way." Breezing over to the sofa, he flopped down onto it.

"Yes, Sherlock. It would be futile. And stupid." John lowered his foot, but didn't move from his place, back still turned on his friend.

"Your problem now is that you believe I don't think of you. Correct? You'd be wrong, of course."

John snorted at Sherlock's deduction, "Of course I'd be wrong, I'm always wrong." He sighed. "You don't even think about yourself when you're on a case. You said it yourself a second ago: work is all that matters to you. Why should you waste brain space on me?" John kicked at the leg of his chair, head down. It's not as though he'd had some sort of _spell_ put on him recently or anything. Damn Mycroft. Damn Sherlock. Damn his own sense of loyalty. Damn it all to hell.

"I told you to get out of the remains of the burned building because I saw you'd been injured. While I didn't expect you to listen to me, I was pleased when you did. This meant you were safe." The look on John's face was also not good. Sherlock rubbed his forehead and sighed out, "Sit down. Calm down. I wouldn't bother taking you on cases with me if I didn't value your presence. In your own way, you have become part of The Work."

While John was internally impressed at Sherlock's selflessness, it was still true that Sherlock was an idiot when it came to his own health. He felt a sense of contentment wash through him and when he refocused, John found himself sitting in his chair. "I'm glad you value my presence Sherlock, but I really would appreciate it if you'd value my opinions well. I know I'm not a genius but I am a friend. And I'd rather die with you in a house collapse than watch something happen to you from the side of the street." John pulled his hands down his face in frustration. "You do understand why we have to get rid of this _thing_, right?"

"Because... come over here on the couch and sit down with me." This '_thing_' was going to be a convenience for him as long as he could take advantage of it. It wasn't right to have to force John to do what he liked, but it would still be useful if he needed John to do something. Or if he wanted to irritate him.

Sighing, John stood up and walked over, dropping himself unceremoniously on the couch next to Sherlock. He slumped down and leaned his head over the back of the couch and stayed like that a minute before tilting his head sideways to look at Sherlock. "Because what, Sherlock?"

"That's why. It was a demonstration." Sherlock shifted and squirmed until he was sprawled out like an old cat over John's lap. His own personal human space heater. "You'll do whatever I say whenever I say it even if it isn't what you want. Even if it is the worst possible course of action."

John looked at their positions for a moment. Then he looked back at Sherlock with some surprise. "I...Exactly, Sherlock. Exactly. One day, you're going to do something stupid. Something the old me would physically hold you back from doing. And you're going to tell me to stand still or stay there and I'll have to watch it happen. I-uh.." John cleared his throat, "I can't do that, Sherlock. I won't."

"Hm." Sherlock took John's surprise in stride. At the moment, he really couldn't be arsed to care. "So then I'm ordering you to not listen to my orders if they include standing down in a situation where I could potentially be killed." He wondered if that would even work.

"Are you-I mean- All right, Sherlock." John nodded firmly. "You'd better hope this actually works though. Because if I have to let you die... I'm going to kill you." He turned a small smile on his friend. Closing his eyes, John felt himself relax further, glad to have the argument worked out and glad that Sherlock wasn't quite so oblivious as he sometimes seemed. "Will you talk to Mycroft about getting rid of it anyway? I mean, he sort of tricked me. I'd feel stupid if it was anyone other than Mycroft who did it."

Sherlock let out an amused huff, shifting again to get comfortable across John's lap. "Killing me if I'm already dead is going to be quite the feat. Counterproductive, in fact." Sherlock was never oblivious; he just needed to be made aware of certain things being more important than he thought they were. Anything he deemed as not important was filed away and eventually deleted.

"He sort of tricked you? Hm."

"Well, yeah," John replied, "I mean he said he had something for me, something that would help you. I was picked up one of his bloody cars and driving to some warehouse; you know how he likes those, and then..." He spread his fingers in what he considered to be a magicky movement and shrugged. "I came to in the car again, headed back here and he had texted me the very basics of it."

"Then if he believes he's done this for my good, the only way to get him to reverse it would be to demonstrate that he's completely wrong."

John thought about Sherlock's proposal for a moment, fingers on his lower lip. It seemed like a decent plan, but somehow John figured it was not going to be as easy as the detective made it sound. "And how do we do that?"

"Hmm...it must be hypnosis," Sherlock sussed. The fact that Mycroft would take such desperate and experimental measures to try and protect him made Sherlock roll his eyes. He could have done any number of things to John's mind besides this that they were as of yet unaware.

"Well...there are the obvious things. I could order you to attack me. I could order you to get me drugs. I could order you to do any number of things that would adversely affect me."

"Oh no, we are not doing that, I've already done enough harm." John shook his head firmly and pushed Sherlock's legs off his lap. "You're the genius; find something else to convince him. And this is Mycroft-wouldn't he see through that?" John stood stiffly, rotating his shoulder carefully, a slight grimace on his face.

"Get some ice and put it on your shoulder. Or is it heat that would be good for it? Get whichever one that would be good for it to put on it." Having had his legs pushed off from John's lap, Sherlock let the rest of his body go with them and rolled into the floor with a muted thud. Yawned, stretching on the carpet before sitting up. "If he knows I'll abuse it, it won't matter if he sees through it or not."

John snorted at Sherlock's actions then went into the kitchen to get some ice. "So your plan is to abuse the geis? Abuse me? Brilliant. You know, you really are brilliant."

Sarcasm. No matter. Sherlock replied back with his own sarcasm: "Thank you. Really, I don't think you've ever complimented me that way before."

"Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head."

John returned, rolling his eyes and sat back on the couch, ice resting on his shoulder and his leg against Sherlock's arm as the other man sat on the floor, back leaning against the couch. "And you said hypnosis...how do you figure?"

Sherlock knocked his elbow against John's leg. "Of course it's hypnosis, what else would it be? There's no kind of chip they could implant into your head for this. Besides, there's no mark on your head anywhere. It could be drugs and behavioral conditioning, but that takes years and is imperfect at best."

John leaned forward to look at Sherlock and shook his head, "No, you see Sherlock, I'd had more than one psychiatrist, one of them tried hypnosis. This didn't feel like hypnosis. It felt...well, very strange. But not hypnosis." The chip idea hadn't occurred to him and he wouldn't put it past Mycroft. His hand flashed up to his head and patted his hair, making sure Sherlock was correct.

"And you don't trust your psychiatrists. Why should you? Because they have a piece of paper declaring that they understand the human mind and behaviors? It doesn't mean they aren't amateurs. Mycroft does not tolerate or surround himself with mediocrity. He would have the best people at his disposal for that task." Sherlock stretched again and got himself out of the floor. "If not hypnosis, then what do you suppose it was?"

John still looked unsure. "I don't know, Sherlock. But it wasn't hypnosis...and earlier..." he hesitated.

"Earlier, what?" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, fluffing out the back of his messy curls.

John shrugged, "It's just when you said, Calm down, earlier. I didn't just relax-you know take deep breaths, whatever-I was just immediately calmer...like a wave of relaxation. I don't know, Sherlock. I don't understand it."

"Really...?" Sherlock studied John for a moment. "John, become angry."

Sudden rage filled John's body and he jumped off the couch, trying to hold himself back from strangling the man in front of him. "Sherlock! This is _NOT A GAME_! THIS IS MY LIFE! CAN YOU _TRY_ TO UNDERSTAND THAT?"

Sherlock watched the instant transformation. An eyebrow ticked upward momentarily. "How did it feel when you became angry just now, John?" He was like a little boy not getting away from the hornet's nest but getting closer to see what the buzzing noise was.

Eyes flashing, John bent down, ignoring his shoulder, and pulled Sherlock to his feet by his collar. "IT FEELS LIKE EVERY OTHER TIME YOU TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME AND EXPECT NOTHING TO HAPPEN! WELL I'M DONE, SHERLOCK! I'M BLOODY _FINISHED_!" He tossed Sherlock violently onto the couch and went to the door, stopping to point an accusatory finger at the detective. "I'm leaving and God help you if you try to stop me."

Really very angry, then. Sherlock allowed himself to be grappled and thrown onto the couch, his head snapping up to watch John as he headed for the door. His curiosity was not sated. "Get back here and tell me how it felt when you became angry."

John had progressed to a point of fury where nearly all signs of anger had vanished from his face. He moved to Sherlock and leaned over the man coldly, "It felt like waking up to all the _shit_ you put me through every damned day. Like I've been freed from the part of me who just hangs his head when you're an ass, and lets it go when you insult me or order me around."

Sherlock then sat up, putting his face very near to John's. "Interesting. So you're saying it's made you hypersensitive to things you can otherwise brush under the proverbial rug. ...It's a bit like emotional recall, don't you think? An actor's tool. Bringing out every little negative thing you feel like a bullet being chambered." He smirked a little, then. Not because of John's anger, but only because he felt this was proving him right yet again. "Interesting. Very advanced hypnosis..."

"IT IS NOT HYPNOSIS! _Why. Aren't. You. Listening_?" John drew back his fist and let it fly at the detective's cheek. He was beyond words. He retracted his hand and readied another blow.

He shouldn't have been surprised, but Sherlock's eyes widened when John punched him, the force of the blow throwing him back. He'd seen John angry at him multiple times but never quite like this. Should he have specified how angry? When the stars cleared from his vision and he could push himself back up from the couch cushions again, instead of the command he should have been giving he asked in outrage: "If not hypnosis then what?! What other possible explanation is there?!"

"I DON'T KNOW! IT WAS _MAGIC_, SHERLOCK! That's what it reminded me of all right?!" John grabbed the front of the detective's shirt and pulled his face closer. "Stop treating me like a moron, you utter bastard." John managed to pull himself back and turned away from his flat mate. "I'm leaving, Sherlock. I'm tired of this. I'm finding a new flat, finding a new life. One _without_ your bullshit."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Oh. Oh... this wasn't an experiment to try and prove himself right anymore. That had actually affected him. John wanted to leave. If this was hypnosis and bringing out all of John's negative inner feelings... he must have felt the urge to pack up and leave before. It must have been something he was considering. Really, it was only a matter of time anyway. Who on earth could tolerate him?

Sitting up and rubbing the swelling bruise on his cheek, Sherlock sighed. "Calm down, John."

John froze, face still angry for a moment, then confused, then he felt like he was going to be sick. "My God... Sherlock..." Rushing forward, he reached his hand forward to tilt the detective's face, but stopped short guiltily. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I...I don't know what happened. I'm..." He fell silent, pleading with his eyes for Sherlock to forgive him.

Sherlock projected stoicism like a switch had been flicked. "It's fine." Slowly, he scooted forward and rose from the sofa. Deep, even breaths as he made his way towards his bedroom so that he wouldn't give away anything. Maybe it wasn't fine, but John didn't have to know that.

"Sherlock, wait. Please, it's not fine." John walked after the man, wanting to stop him and not wanting him to flinch away from his touch. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any of that." God, what was that? Where had that come from?

"No, it's...fine. Rather my fault for making you feel angry." Yet he didn't make eye contact with John or even turn around. How long would it be until John was calling him a freak behind his back and then to his face? It wasn't as though he made it any easier for someone to live with him or be his only friend.

John went around Sherlock and put a hand to his chest, "Sherlock. Listen to me; tell me to be honest if you need to. But I didn't mean that. I don't want to leave. I'm not going to leave, Sherlock. I think it's pretty clear that you need me and I don't know what I would do without you, all right? Are we okay? Are you okay?" He peered into the taller man's eyes, searching.

"You don't owe anything to me. Why are you insisting on this?" Deep, slow breaths to calm the heart pounding just under John's hand. His face was a mask of neutrality, as ever. His eyes were focused right on John's without wavering. "I'm fine. I'm certain you could get on well should you choose to leave. There isn't a debt between us that should keep you here against your will under that circumstance." He blinked. "Everything is fine."

John shook his head once, frustrated, "It's not out of a debt, Sherlock! I've told you. It's because I care about you, I'm your friend. Yeah? And you're my friend, whether you think so or not. I am not leaving." God, why did this keep happening? He was going to have some choice words with Mycroft sometime very soon.

"And when the excitement becomes too much or too dangerous for you and you miss out on the life all of your peers seem to be having...what then?" Sherlock's expression did not change. "Oh, of course, this may be fun for you now, this...caring for me lark. But what about a wife and a family? Something ordinary and that you can take pride in rather than dealing with me and my eccentricities."

Surprised at Sherlock's openness, John listened carefully. "Sherlock, you know that the excitement or danger is never going to be too much for me. You know that. And can you really see me with a family? Really? I barely get around to talking with my sister…"

...Oh. He should have been dropping the subject. It was telling, the way he kept going on about it. He was letting it get to him. His voice softened, becoming dejected, even. "...It's all right, John. It's fine. Just a bit rattled. Something may have come loose when you punched me." With a hand on John's wrist, he moved his hand away and tried to move around him.

He sidestepped into Sherlock, stopping the man from maneuvering around him. "I'm sorry I punched you. I didn't mean to." He sighed, "I'll let it go for now, but Sherlock, please. You have to believe me. I'm not going anywhere."

'U_nless you make me extraordinarily angry'_, Sherlock heard in his mind, tacked onto the end of John's heartfelt statement. "Of course. You're nothing if not honest, John. ...I'm going to kip and then do some research on the hypnosis or... 'magic' that you're under. There must be a way to reverse it."

John eyed Sherlock as he seemed to accept John's words. "All right... and I heard the air quotes around that. I know what you're thinking. I may have been furious Sherlock, but it was true. I do know hypnosis and this isn't it." He smirked, "And, it usually takes a lot more than that to get me angry enough to hit you."

Sherlock was apparently finished with the conversation. Magic was impossible. "Mm...you could get me some ice if you'd like. This feels like it's swelling." He didn't try to get around John this time, but he worded his request carefully so that he wasn't simply ordering John around. He could, but he knew he shouldn't take advantage of it.

John nodded, appreciating the gesture. "I'll grab my pack from the living room. You should probably go get some more rest." He hoped Sherlock would take his advice, but knew he was more likely to stay up and do research.

He returned to Sherlock's room, tossing the ice pack to the detective. Then he pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft,

[I need to see you JW].

Sherlock caught the icepack, flopped down onto his bed, put the pack on his face and similarly texted Mycroft.

[Whatever you've done to John needs to be undone. Immediately. SH]

[Sorry, busy. MH]—was the reply to both men. And John groaned in frustration. Of course. They'd have to run on Mycroft's schedule. "Your brother is an ass." John tossed himself into his chair and signed, rubbing his face.

[I'm going to order him to shoot me if you don't. SH]

"John, where is your gun?"


	4. In Which There is Disbelief

"John, where is your gun?"

John frowned, "Bottom drawer of my side table. Why?" He leaned back in the chair, stretching slowly.

"Oh, just making a threat. Needed to make certain it wasn't baseless."

[Losing my patience. Tell me what you did to him and I'll undo it myself. SH]

John leaned forward, brow furrowed, "Sherlock? Who are you texting?"

[You can't undo it. MH]

[Then I suppose John will just have to shoot me. SH]

There was always more to it than Mycroft let on. Always little half-truths and deceit. Sherlock was also more than certain that Mycroft was using some means to spy on them. "Go and get your gun, John. As a matter of fact, fetch my revolver while you're getting it. I'd rather like to have it back."

[Don't be stupid MH]

"Sherlock?" John heard a note of alarm in his own voice. He walked out of the room, and returned a minute later. Handing Sherlock's own revolver to him, he stood stiffly by the door. Sherlock was plotting, and that was never good.

[You don't seem to understand how serious I am. SH]

"Point your gun at me." Sherlock took his revolver with a pleased look on his face, stuffing it under his pillow. As John would have no choice but to obey, Sherlock held up his phone and started to take a picture to send to Mycroft.

"_No!_ Sherlock! Stop this, stop this now!" John's eyes widened as his hand rose and the weapon became level with Sherlock's chest. And he was taking a picture?!

[This is your final chance. SH]

Sherlock sent the picture with the text, John's fearful face and level gun hand pointed right at the camera lens.

[Sherlock. Stop it. MH]

John's face reddened with the effort of trying to put his gun down. Lower it, turn it away, flick on the safety, anything! "Ah..! Sherlock!"

[Tell me what you did or I'm going to tell him to shoot. SH]

"It would probably be easier if you stopped trying to resist, John. This is all means to an end." There was no fear in his eyes as he made eye contact with John.

[I've put a geis on him. He's told you as much already. MH]

"I. won't." John growled out between clenched teeth. "I won't shoot you, Sherlock. I don't care about whatever 'end' this is supposed to accomplish, I won't." He let out a small shout and managed to turn the gun slightly before it retargeted Sherlock seemingly by itself.

"Easy now. You don't want the gun going off accidentally, do you?"

[Stop being purposefully obtuse and tell me what you did and how to reverse it. At the rate John's fighting it, he's going to shoot me by accident. SH]

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John had tears of frustration in his eyes.

[I've told you. You can't reverse it. And it's classified. MH]

[Do let him put the gun down. You can see it's killing him. MH]

[And don't call me obtuse. I've been dieting. MH]

[I'm not letting him stop until you declassify it. SH]

[No one can tell you've been dieting. SH ]

"It's all right, John." Sherlock's tone was even. He was trying to be calming. "It will turn out, you'll see."

[At least I don't have a gun pointed at me. MH]

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

[You will have to come see me. I can't divulge anything over text. MH]

"It's _not_ _all right_ Sherlock!" John was exhausted. His emotions had been pushed to the limit today and now he had a gun aimed at Sherlock.

[I hope you understand what a mistake you've made by doing this to John. Make room in your schedule. SH]

"Slowly put the safety on and lower the gun." Huffing, Sherlock put his phone down on the bedside table.

[I'll have a car there. Be ready in one hour. MH]

Trembling, John did as Sherlock directed, then unloaded the cartridge and threw it against the far wall before collapsing against the door frame.

"John." Sherlock slowly slid off from the bed and crouched down next to his friend. "It was not my intent to have you actually shoot me. Calm down. I may make odd and even dangerous requests but you must understand that there is always a reason."

The doctor felt his muscles relax, and the panic and frustration left him suddenly. He sighed, drained but strangely comfortable. "You shouldn't do that, Sherlock. Sometimes I'll need to be angry, or frightened. You can't take that away from me too." John wiped his face roughly, dropping the empty gun to the floor.

"Why would you want to experience those things when I can make them stop?" That was something Sherlock could not grasp at all. Panic and discomfort were preferable to being calm and level-headed?

John thought about it for a moment. "I don't know, Sherlock. But I do know that I'll need it sometimes. Just... keep that in mind, yeah?"

"Mmhm," Sherlock half-replied. "You seem tired." Going to his drawers, he started to pull out clothing he intended to wear. A nice powder blue shirt and his usual black trousers. "You may nap if you wish."

John worked up the energy to stand. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock pulled off his pyjamas and paid no mind to the fact that he was disrobing in front of John down to his pants. The button-up went on first, followed by the trousers. "Off to talk to an old nemesis."

John took a breath, "Mycroft then? Oh-" He cut himself off as he looked up and saw Sherlock stepping into a pair of trousers. He looked determinedly away, face going slightly pink. "Wait, was all of that for Mycroft? You couldn't just _talk_ with him?"

"Talking to him requires kidnapping and an abandoned building. You know this. That was to prove a point so that no black cars, helicopters or - God forbid - stretch limos were required."

The doctor didn't even bother to argue. "Should I come with?" He wasn't overly eager to meet up with Mycroft again, but he didn't want Sherlock to do something stupid either.

"I don't think you'll like it if you come. We'll be talking about you like you aren't in the room constantly and your opinion won't seem to matter." After getting his belt, socks and shoes on, Sherlock shrugged into his blazer.

John nodded, "Right. So like every other conversation I've ever had with you two." Sherlock was right, though. He was exhausted and he could hear his bed calling to him. "I'll stay here then. Wake me when you're back? Let me know what you find out?" John paused in the doorway.

"Of course. I'll get down to the bottom of it. You know how I operate." More importantly, Sherlock knew how Mycroft operated. With a twitch of the lips that counted as a quirky smile, he went to get his coat and scarf, headed out. He had an hour. Plenty of time to run a few errands before meeting with Mycroft. Plenty of time to ignore the black Sedan Mycroft would send just to irritate him.

"Wonderful." John spoke to the empty flat. Then he turned and went to bed. One of his last thoughts before falling asleep was that it wasn't as comfortable as with Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed at his mobile. Sherlock was not going to make this easy.

Sherlock never made things easy, but he always got results. A quick trip to the park to pass along a slip of paper and a few notes and a longer than expected cab ride later and Sherlock was just outside of a posh but unassuming office building. He knew the rules. Moved quickly, acted like he belonged there, looked at no one and made his way back to a more private wing. Mycroft's office door closed behind him silently.

"Sherlock." Mycroft greeted him from his high backed chair. "You have questions."

"You may as well save us both the trouble and answer them since undoubtedly you know what they are." Sherlock chose to remain standing, hands in the pockets of his coat.

"You know I cannot divulge information to the public," Mycroft smirked. "You will have to ask your questions and I will answer them to the best of my ability."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do get on with it. I won't chase after the carrot on a stick - or in your case, an entire carrot cake. What is this geis? How do I remove it?"

Mycroft frowned deeply. Always with the cake. "Had you bothered to look into it at all yourself, you would know that a geis is a spell which compels a certain action or actions on penalty of...let us just say 'unpleasantness'. You, dear brother, cannot remove it as I told you before. You have not the-ah, skill set for such an undertaking." Mycroft stood, stiffly, and walked around his desk.

Sherlock looked over Mycroft's head at the wall, unimpressed. "I suppose you're expecting me to believe that. Unless you've completely taken leave of your senses - and let's for once give you the benefit of the doubt and say you still have your wits about you - that's completely impossible."

Mycroft chuckled darkly at the floor, "I shall have to disagree with you there. It is quite possible as you have no doubt seen from John." He looked up at Sherlock," I offer you a gift. Protection and constant obedience from the one person who seems able to stand you for any length of time and you immediately demand I take it back. Really brother, where is your gratitude?"

"Sorry, must have left it in my other trousers in a universe in which I should be grateful to you for anything." Sherlock's gaze was icy. "Your gift has been rejected. You will undo whatever hypnosis you've subjected John to. I'm sure my demonstration earlier made it clear all the ways this gift of yours could be abused. I could tell him to go out and get me drugs and he couldn't refuse. Do you understand with how great a temptation you've presented me?"

Grinning, Mycroft stepped forward. "As John has told you; it was not hypnosis. And yes, I understand how this could be a temptation; I also see it as a learning process for you. You could order him to get you drugs but then you would have to deal with his guilt and anger at watching you destroy yourself. Quite brilliant, really, on my part. Because John's got it right, Sherlock. You don't care about what happens to you, but you do care what happens to _him_." Mycroft reached forward and brushed a bit of nothing off from Sherlock's shoulder. "And he would not have shot you even if you had ordered it. It's strictly against the geis and against your own orders. Do keep in mind that if you make him follow contradicting orders, the result will not be pleasant for him."

Were he an animal, Sherlock's hackles would have been raised, fur standing on end. As he was a human, his eyes only narrowed just slightly. He waited patiently for Mycroft to finish before responding.

"Really? Would you like to know what I see it as? You playing chess with John and I. How could he feel guilt when I can order him to feel whatever I like? I won't be a part of this game, Mycroft. There isn't any such thing as magic; you aren't going to put me on. John should have his own free will." The urge to strike Mycroft was rising, but he quelled it as ever. "We aren't your personal entertainment. He isn't my slave. You're going to reverse it."

Mycroft's face soured. "Fine." He spit the word out and turned away, "If you do not feel able to control yourself. This is why Mummy never let us have a dog. You are unable to care for anything. And don't turn all this on me, Dr. Watson replied to my request and agreed of his own free will. Whether he fully understood what he was doing was not my concern." Once at his desk again, Mycroft perched himself at the corner. "Unfortunately, it will take a few days. I have not the skill set either and my man is out of the country at the moment. You will have to struggle through. Consider it a test run, if you like. Have some fun with it." Mycroft smiled a shark's smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"My control over myself is not the issue. The fact that John can no longer freely choose what to feel or what to do should I go on a whim is the issue. Shall I impose a geis on you as well so that you might be on a leash and collar too, hm? Don't think I won't find out exactly what this classified process is." Oh, Sherlock's temper was rising. "What you do not seem to grasp is John is not a plaything. You cannot play God and expect everyone to bow down and thank you for your thinly veiled selfish acts! I've been hoping you would vanish from my life since I was ten years old! Perhaps there's some kind of special magic trick for that too, hm?! I control my life. Not you. The sooner you understand that, the better off we'll all be." He knocked over a book just out of spite.

"Ever the child, Sherlock." Mycroft shook his head and let it drop. "Your words and actions show me what I did was for the best, but I will have the geis lifted once my man returns. I make no promises about the 'vanishing trick' however. And do not play with things you don't understand." Mycroft laughed aloud at his own words, "Hah, as if you would ever listen to that. Let me phrase it another way: Do not try to lift the geis yourself, Sherlock. For John's sake." He picked some papers off his desk in a fashion meant to convey finality. "You will hear from me in three days."

More anger. Sherlock could hardly contain himself from knocking over every paper and scattering them across the room. "Anything you've ever done for me has only been for your own benefit. Let me make it clear to you once again since you appear to have a disconnect between your ears and your brain." His voice rose significantly, "You _don't control my life!_ You aren't welcome in my life, now or ever!"

Mycroft tutted. "Temper, Sherlock." He went back behind his desk and sat, scribbling on some papers.

"Stop pretending that you're Mummy." And out Sherlock dashed, making absolutely certain that the sound of the door slamming shut echoed.

A few moments after the echo faded, Mycroft sighed and put down his pen. Resting his forehead on his hands, he closed his eyes tightly and tried to relax. Good God, Sherlock made things difficult. Despite what his younger brother might have thought, his shouts had hurt. Mycroft only wanted Sherlock to be happy and if that meant becoming the enemy who pushed him closer to John, then so be it. Sighing again, Mycroft clicked off his desk lamp and sat in the darkness, thinking.

Sherlock, for his part, only wanted to be left alone in his bohemian lifestyle to do his work his own way. He wasn't the Golden Son or the favorite child and felt that Mycroft lived to lord all of this over him. Control every aspect of your life and never have to worry about it.

The first thing he did after leaving the building was get a pack of cigarettes from a corner store. He felt like walking home.


	5. In Which There are Witches

John woke to the sound of the outer door slamming. Oh, that was a great sign. "Sherlock?" He raised his voice, rubbing his eyes and climbing out of the tangled sheets.

The smell of cigarette smoke and cold wind blew in with Sherlock's arrival. At least he opened a window as he lit one cigarette off from another, flicking the butt out. John's call went ignored even though he'd heard it.

Stumbling out into the hallway, John frowned at what he saw, "Sherlock, gimme those." He grabbed what was left of the pack from his friend. Looking him up and down, "Jesus, it's freezing, Sherlock, what were you thinking?"

Sherlock gave up the pack without protest but turned his face away quickly so John couldn't have the one he had lit in his mouth. "Needed a walk," he replied stiffly. He'd ignored the cold the entire way back.

John made a sound of annoyance and grabbed a thick blanket from the couch. Tossing it around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling it around his front, John waited, not very hopefully. "So… you-uh, spoke with Mycroft?"

Transport complained it was cold. Sherlock ignored that too. Still too angry. "Obviously." He blew a plume of smoke out the window.

John nodded, wishing Sherlock would elaborate and knowing that in this temper, it was better he not push. He put on some tea and took Sherlock's hands in his, rubbing them to get the blood flowing again.

Sherlock smoked the cigarette down to the filter before flicking it outside, borrowing one of his hands back to shut the window. He hunched and stiffened himself so he wouldn't shiver. There was no way he was going to allow himself to be that cold. "Three days," he muttered, clenching his jaw.

The doctor nodded knowingly, then stopped and shook his head, "Sorry, Three days, what?" John served the tea in mugs and presented one to Sherlock.

"Three days until I hear from him again. Mycroft lives for the dramatic build-up." He took the mug and held it in his hands for a moment just for the warmth. Had he really just allowed John to drape a blanket around him and rub his hands?

"But he said...He did say he'd get rid of it, right?" John waited, prepared for disappointment and wondering what he would do if Mycroft wouldn't help. Wondered what Sherlock would do... They weren't nice thoughts.

"He said his man who had the capabilities was out of the country, implying of course that he _can_ get rid of it. I'm waiting for him to come back at me with a price for his services since of course he was so selfless by forcing you into this in the first place." He took a sip of tea, curling up on the sofa with his legs up to his chest.

John scratched his hairline and sighed. At least that wasn't a no. "You really think he'd make you pay to get rid of it?" Taking a seat next to Sherlock, John took a breath. "You know, Sherlock, if it's going to be a hassle, I mean..." He trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say.

"Oh, you'd rather live like this." Thick sarcasm. "Yes, I understand. I'll just order you to do something you certainly don't want to do every day for the rest of your life and you won't be any wiser for it because I'll order you to either forget the event or feel content for having obeyed me."

Face suddenly pale, John looked over at Sherlock. He hadn't even considered that. That was terrifying. And yet...no. No way. He coughed, "You're right. Of course you're right." He leaned back against the couch and sipped his tea.

Moodily, Sherlock sipped his own tea. "I want my cigarettes back."

"Too bad. I threw them away. Crushed them up and _then_ threw them away. You had been doing so well, Sherlock." John absently rested an arm on Sherlock's knees, "Are you warming up?"

That was taking away Sherlock's only pacifier. John had better come up with an interesting case or a dead body to prod at if he wanted to get the detective back into a good mood. "I'm fine. I never complained of the cold in the first place."

John laughed, "You didn't have to. Your ears looked ready to fall off. And your hands were icicles. I'm sorry things didn't go well with Mycroft." He patted Sherlock's knee and returned his hand to his cup.

"You'll be sorry for the rest of eternity if you always present that apology." Sherlock continued to sip at his tea, raising a brow at the touches. John was taking liberties today.

Another laugh was cut off by a sudden sobering thought, "Sherlock. You haven't... " He shook his head. Stupid. "Never mind."

"I haven't what? It's unbecoming to start expressing thoughts and abruptly end them."

John rolled his eyes, "Oh yes, because being 'unbecoming' is the height of my worries right now. It was stupid, forget it." John flinched at his own phrase, so close to his nearly spoken question.

"For God's sake, just say it!" Sherlock put his tea down and let his limbs explode out of the blanket, tossing it away.

"I'm worried that you may have made me do something then forget it." John blanched and rushed to clarify, "I mean I'm not really worried, but I...I hadn't thought about that. Could you actually do that?" Ducking his head, the doctor avoided Sherlock's gaze.

So now John didn't trust him. Thank you, Mycroft.

"I'm going to say a phrase, John. Repeat it back to me: Shakespeare sonata sea."

"Shakespeare sonata sea," John repeated dutifully, then broke in nervously, "That's not really an answer, Sherlock..."

"Do you remember the phrase? Say it again."

"Yes, Sherlock I remember it. Shakespeare sonata sea." John realized where this was going and his anxiety level shot up. He committed the phrase to memory, firmly setting it in his mind.

"Now forget the phrase." Sherlock fixed his eyes on John, watching the worry on his face. "What was the phrase I had you say, John?"

"It was-No, it was right there..! Sherlock, it was..." John turned a panicked look on the detective. "Oh God...I don't remember."

"There's your answer. No, I've never done it before, though. This is the first time." He finished off his tea, staring at the wall. Not good. A power too easily abused.

John put his head in his hands, mind whirling. This could've been the millionth time... But he had to believe in Sherlock. Or at least the knowledge that Sherlock wouldn't do that same test over and over just to appease John's worries.

"I...I believe you, Sherlock. I trust you. I want you to know that. I know this is insane, but... I mean, if it had to be someone, I'm glad it was you."

A scoffing noise issued from the detective. "If I wanted to, I could make you forget you ever met me. I hold that power in my hands and yet you still trust me."

"Yes, Sherlock. I do. I know you. And I know you wouldn't do that. Not even to prove me wrong." John managed a half smile and raised his head from his hands.

The look Sherlock returned was not a smile. Still in a mood. Still irritated. Worried. ...Sad? No. Not possible. Sherlock didn't feel those things. He must have been still tired.

John watched the other man. He had to do something. "Here, okay. Let's do this. It's a new thing. Let's experiment. You know you can make me get you tea, and point a gun at you, you can get me to relax and make me angry. You can make me forget-what else can you do?" He rushed on, nervous. "It's alright, Sherlock. Mycroft will sort it out and in the meantime." He shrugged and waited for Sherlock's response.

Sherlock's eyes ticked over John and came back with a conclusion that seemed to surprise him. "You want me to order you to do something."

John shrugged again, "Sure, I mean, I'd rather we figure this out than you sit and pout all evening." He tried another smile and nudged Sherlock's knees with his elbow.

Hm. Interesting. He eyed John for another half a second before deciding. "John. Act without inhibition or fear of consequence."

Stiffening for a moment, John felt himself relax throughout and he laughed. "Wow, Sherlock. You...you should try this." He turned his head to the detective, "Look at you, you need to loosen up..." John crawled over Sherlock's knees, and poked the man lightly in the chest. "You are just a ball of..._angst_, that's what you are." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and then let himself fall into the other man's lap.

Oh. Sherlock was stricken speechless for a moment, not certain how he should react in this situation. He hadn't exactly expected John to start being physically affectionate towards him. "How are you feeling?"

"Mmm. I feel great, Sherly. All relaxed and loose and like I don't have a," he pitched his voice higher,"caaaareeee in the world."

Oh, _that_ was irritating. Well, Sherlock had done it to himself. No use being irritated at John for following direct orders. "And what do you feel like doing?"

"What. Ever. You. Like." John sprawled out and tilted his head back so he was looking at Sherlock's face upside down. "Haha, see up your nose...I'm up for anything! Let's do it!"

John gasped with a sudden thought and flipped himself over so he was inches away from Sherlock's face. "Can we go egg Mycroft's house? Cos that would be brilliant!" John collapsed against Sherlock's chest, giggling.

Now _that_ would be entertaining. Sherlock had looked surprised briefly when John was almost in his face, and then relaxed again. Fondly, he pet John's head, chuckling. "Go back to normal John now. Only, don't feel any regret or embarrassment for having followed my instruction to be inhibition-free just now." Sherlock didn't think he could handle any more of this pseudo-drunk behavior.

John blinked when he found himself tucked next to Sherlock. Huh? Oh. Ohhh. He sat up. "Sorry," he returned to his own seat and furrowed his brows, thinking for a minute. "Well. That was interesting." He licked his lips and tilted his head. "Did I call you... Sherly?" He tried to stifle a laugh, and turn it into a cough. He failed miserably.

Sherlock couldn't help the small smile and the giggle that escaped. "Yes, you did."

John threw back his head and guffawed. "Oh my God. That was hilarious."

It was infectious as ever because John made it okay to laugh inappropriately. "Don't think you'll get away with calling me that again."

"Whatever you say...Sherly." John almost couldn't get the word out he was laughing so hard. He wiped a tear from his eye and grabbed his stomach. "Oh God...Ha ha." He looked at Sherlock with a gentle smile, "You all right?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock returned the smile, out of place on his expression unless it was condescending. At least his mood was brighter now. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I really think I am." John relaxed back against the couch again, small chuckles still shaking his frame then and again.

"Mycroft told me the geis was magic. Insisted, in fact."

John sat up quickly and pointed a finger at Sherlock in victory, "See? I told you, Sherlock! I knew it wasn't hypnosis." Then the thought sank in. "Magic..? But that's..." he trailed off.

"Impossible, yes." Sherlock's lips thinned while he tried to puzzle it out. There was no such thing, even if Mycroft warned him not to play with forces he didn't understand.

"Huh." John eyed Sherlock. "So are we going to investigate?"

"Of course we are. I don't like waiting or playing by someone else's rules."

"Brilliant," John grinned. "Where do we start?"

"Somewhere we aren't supposed to go with people we shouldn't associate with, I should say."

"Sounds like a plan to me." John bounced up and grabbed his jacket. Pulling it on, he waved at Sherlock, "Well, come on, Sherly dear, there's an adventure waiting."

A smile split John's face and he ducked the book Sherlock threw at him.

"I know of a coven," Sherlock started once they were both headed down the stairs. "I was there for a case just the once. Never had the desire to go back. I despise the smell of burning sage."

John wasn't even surprised any more. "You know of a coven. In London. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a very strange man."

"It seems like a logical first step, don't you think? Besides, I know everything there is to know about London."

Spreading his hands in acceptance, John stopped short on the sidewalk. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock spun in a half turn just as he was about to hail a cab.

"Did you..." John frowned, remembering, "Did you pat me on the head back there?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. TAXI!"

John chased after the taller man, a small smile on his face.

He hopped in the cab and rubbed his arms. It was cold outside, how on Earth had Sherlock managed to walk from wherever in this weather?

Solid constitution. Or maybe just the ability to filter out what the transport was feeling when his mind was busy. Sherlock was holding his coat more tightly around himself now. "Have you ever met a witch before?"

John shook his head, still trying to get a grasp on the conversation. "No, I don't believe so. You have, I take it?"

"Of course. Never took a belief in the occult or the supernatural, but it pays to know of at least one person from each possible trade."

Always the pragmatist. "So what are we going to do? Just burst in and say, 'Hello! Is magic real? 'Cos I've got a geis on me and it's pretty convincing.' "

"Something like that." Sherlock looked out the cab window after telling the cabbie their destination. "At least I didn't choose one of the underground nightclubs to visit."

John snorted, "Yeah, probably vampires in those ones." He paused for a second than shook his head. They were not going to have that conversation. Not now anyway.

"I am still not convinced that magic is real, let alone folklore beings like vampires." Though it was very tempting to find out. If magic was real, all sorts of things could be real. Then again if magic was real, that would alter reality entirely. He could have been wrong on so many cases...

Watching the frown grow on Sherlock's face, John interrupted the thought, "Well, let's focus on this for now then, yeah?" His phone buzzed and he took it out.

[Where are you going? MH]

John sighed.

"Hm? ...Yes. Of course." Because he still had to hold on to the reality he knew where magic was not real. Reality could not be altered by ingredients and words from a spellbook.

[Nowhere, at home with tea. JW]

His phone buzzed again. [Don't lie. Where are you going? MH]

"Dammit." John frowned at his mobile. "It's Mycroft. Wants to know where we're going."

"Oh?" Sherlock flipped his own mobile out of his pocket.

[Sod off. SH]

[I warned you, Sherlock. For John's sake. MH]

[Who says we're doing anything more than research? Once again, sod off. SH]

[Be careful. MH]

Sherlock decided not to reply to that one, putting his phone away and ignoring it. "There. It's really none of his concern."

John waited, but Mycroft didn't text again. The cab slowed and he looked out the window trying to place their location.

It was an older part of London. The brick buildings were old enough that some of them were crumbling or under renovation. It seemed even colder here and darker for the time of day it was.

Sherlock paid the cabbie, hopped out and started to walk against the wind that seemed like it wanted them to stay away.

"Well this isn't very pleasant." John hunched his shoulders, and walked beside Sherlock. "Seriously though, are these people dangerous?"

"People are always dangerous, John. They're unpredictable." Sherlock kept walking like the wind didn't bother him, distancing himself from the discomfort. They were headed into an even older part of the town that had yet to be touched by renovation.

"Brilliant deduction. Thank you Sherlock." John shivered and hoped they were nearly there. He thought he saw something in the shadows but when he looked back, it was gone and he shook his head.

No traffic. No cabs. Not even foot traffic on the sidewalks. Eerily silent other than the sound the wind made rushing across buildings and through alleys. Finally, _finally_, Sherlock hopped up the steps to an old structure. It looked rather like it might have been a boarding house at one point. Sherlock ducked around the door at every angle to examine it before finally deciding to knock. "As I recall, one of the witches may have been irritated with me."

John was beginning to feel like they were outnumbered by the shadows around them, and he found his gaze flipping sharply side to side. "That's great, Sherlock. Wonderful." Standing stiffly at the door, he held half a hope that no one would answer. He was half right. The door opened slowly, creaking like some horror movie, but no one was in the hall. "Bloody fantastic."

"Come along, then." Sherlock let himself inside, actually sighing out in relief when the cold wind was no longer battering him. To be inside of a warm building was relief to anyone. It smelled nice, like a mixture of floral and thyme, lavender hints hitting them every now and again. The room was lit by a lot of different colored candles, the wax all dripping down the wall to make an artful rainbow. Dim, but warm. Welcoming to a degree but also foreboding. Animal skulls and crystals were hung on the walls. Sherlock seemed unfazed as they continued to encounter no one.

"Um, Sherlock, you know there was no one at the door...are you sure we should just be walking in?" John relaxed his shoulders but he kept hearing _something_. He was sure that there was a shadow following them around.

"Are you afraid of being hexed, John? Just don't touch anything." Sherlock cleared his throat and called out: "Good afternoon? Is anyone here?" No response. He frowned. "They may have gone out. It would be rather dull to wait for them to return."

"Sherlock-" John called the man's name slowly as one of the shadows detached itself from the wall and stepped forward. It formed itself into the shape of a young woman. Pretty even.

"Holmes. Why have you returned here?" Her face was not aggressive, but she held her hands in fists by her side.

"Good afternoon..." Oh, what was her name? Searching database... 404 error! File deleted. Fantastic. "I come to seek answers. I hope you don't mind us dropping by."

"Believe me, Mr. Holmes, we mind. Seek your answers elsewhere." The woman turned her attention to John and her eyebrows raised slightly. "You have been touched."

John spluttered at that, "I-ah, I beg your pardon?"

"You have magic around you."

"You see," Sherlock interjected, "that's what we have come about. To learn more about the, ah... _magic_ surrounding my friend John here." He sounded skeptical even to his own ears. "I am willing to provide a fee of your choosing for your time and knowledge, of course."

The woman smirked. "We do not deal in fees here. We deal in favors. And this will be a large one." She waited for the men to decide what to do.

John turned to Sherlock, "What does she mean, favors? Like she could call on us at any time?"

"Just Mr. Holmes. We have little use for a thrall." She ticked a derisive glance to John who looked affronted though he was unsure why.

"And what favor would you have me do for you?" Sherlock remained steady. "I am nothing if not a man of my word." More or less.

"We have no need of you now. But if you choose our information, it is as the thrall says. You will come and you will help us. There will be no question of it." Her eyes flashed.

"We don't need this, Sherlock, we'll find something else..." John nudged the man's shoulder.

"Why?" The detective addressed John now. "I have nothing against helping the oldest and most powerful coven in...possibly the world." Even if he still did not believe in magic, flattery usually worked against people even if they heard it in passing whispers to other people.

"One thing, though. Primarily, we are here because I am of a scientific mind and don't believe magic is possible. I was hoping for some sort of irrefutable evidence or demonstration perhaps. John believes, but I do not."

"Sherlock, they could ask anything of you. This is not a good idea." John hissed.

The witch laughed loudly. "Do you always allow your thrall to speak to you in that way? To make your decisions for you? Be silent."

John turned to her intended to tell her exactly what he thought of the oldest and most powerful coven and found to his frustration that he was unable to do so. He face grew red at the effort and he glared at her.

With a smirk, she returned her attention to Sherlock, "What _demonstration_ would convince you? We do not do parlor tricks, nor children's parties."

"No, no, of course not. I would never insult you by asking for such a mundane display. In my mind, everything can be explained through the laws of science. I would need something that I could not explain through any other means than magic nor that I could deny had happened." Sherlock thought for a moment, glancing up to read her. Ill intent. He smiled a charming smile anyway.

She frowned at the floor, thinking. Then her face flashed with a too-wide smile. "Do you accept our price, Mr. Holmes? If so, I shall give you your demonstration, and your answers."

John shook his head violently at Sherlock, but the man wasn't looking at him.

"Your price is accepted, however, I have conditions by which I offer my favor. I will not kill unless it's in complete self-defense. I will not steal anything that is high profile. Lastly, no harm will come to John Watson, my 'thrall', as you put it."

Oh yes, he was ignoring John's attempts to gain his attention.

The woman pulled a face at the 'conditions' but after listening to something that was likely just in her head, she nodded. "Your terms have been accepted. What is it you wish to know?"

John shot a light punch at Sherlock's arm in frustration. The meaning was clear: _'Idiot.'_

Sherlock turned to give John a look. _'I know what I'm doing.'_

"First, convince me that magic exists."

"I had hoped you would say that." Her face was lit with a predatory smile again as she turned to John. "Come, thrall."

John moved closer toward the witch and then threw a panicked look over his shoulder.

Reaching a hand out, the woman twirled a bit of John's hair and tugged sharply, ignoring the man's flinch. "You must understand, Mr. Holmes. This would not be possible were your man not already under powerful magic. We are simply going to tap into it for a moment. Redirect it." She stopped speaking. Or else, she stopped speaking English. There were whistles and hisses, the candles dimmed slightly as a winter breeze blew through the hallway. She stepped over to a candle and burned John's hair in the flame, the acrid smell wafting over to Sherlock. Then her arms were thrown up and something sharp snapped in the air.

John stood still, wishing he could back away from this crazy woman and wishing Sherlock hadn't been so stupid as to agree to this. Then he cried out in pain. Bright light flashed behind his eyes and he fell to his knees.

The witch watched her work with wild eyes. Her grin only spreading as John crumpled.

Sherlock stood his ground for as long as he could but seeing John in pain was something he simply could not watch idly. "Stop. As part of my terms, I said no harm should come to him." Did he believe it was magic or only more hypnotism? "John could be under the influence of hypnotism still. The human mind creates illusions and phantom sensations for itself when it's tricked."

"It is too late, Mr. Holmes. And you said only that your favor should not harm him. There were no conditions on the demonstration." Her eyes flicked to Sherlock and her pleasure was obvious. "You must watch, now."

She pointed a finger to John's form...or what had been John's form only moments before. Now, as Sherlock watched, his friend's cries became less distinguishable. More comparable to whimpers. There was another brilliant flash of light and when it faded there was a blond German Shepard stretched out on the floor, panting.

Sherlock stood in the same spot trying to process what he'd just witnessed. There was no trap door, no mirror, no smoke, no trick box or hypnotism he could be under himself (his mind was too strong for that) and so there was but one explanation. One scientifically impossible explanation that had his eyes widening. He could have something of a meltdown about it later. Now was not the time.

"That..." Finally, he approached, examining every angle. Even being brave enough to touch the dog to make sure it was real. "...that. Ch-change him back." No, no, no. Deep breaths. There was an explanation somewhere.

The woman cackled, she actually cackled. "Oh, Mr. Holmes. Somewhat out of our depth? Your thrall is fine where he is for the moment. You have questions, however, about the magic he brought with him?"

"Change him back first," Sherlock snapped, swallowing, not certain he could cope with John being a dog. Some semblance of normalcy needed to be retained before he started to lose it. "Please. Yes, I am out of my depth and I apologize for doubting you, just...change him back."

The dog lifted its head and whined, looking at Sherlock, it stood stiffly and padded over to the detective, nosing against his trouser leg and trying a tail wag.

The witch clapped her hands, "Oh, dog or no, still your thrall. Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" She put her hands to her knees, "Come, dog."

John reluctantly left Sherlock's side and padded over to the woman. "Sit." He sat.

She whispered a few words into the dog's ear, then stepped back, humming loudly from deep in her throat. There was another flash of light and John was gasping on the floor on all fours, scrambling away from her feet.

"What. The. _HELL_ was that."

Sherlock immediately shuffled to stand protectively between John and the witch, sheltering him behind his coat tail. He never cared what happened to himself, but if anything happened to John...

Somehow, he steadied his voice. "Your demonstration is more than adequate. Now tell me about the geis."

The witch smirked at his words and his motions to protect John. "From what I can tell, the geis was laid by a Shaman. A powerful shaman. It does not merely threaten with punishment for an unfollowed command, it does not allow one. I have never seen one so intricately worked." She waggled her fingers at John, who had managed to stumble awkwardly to his feet. "It's quite impressive. I could not remove it without damaging the man. In fact, it seems to work as part of him." She tilted her head and squinted at John, as though looking through him.

Magic was real. Magic. Was. Real. Sherlock kept having to remind himself to put it to the back of his mind to deal with later lest he fall into a panic attack where he stood. All things had their time and place. At the same time, he was so utterly _fascinated_ by all the possibilities. He wanted to learn all that there was to learn about it, understand and recognize the signs just as this witch did. Not his area. Not _yet_.

"I want to learn about it. About everything."

Making a face, she said, "That would take more years than you have left, Mr. Holmes. Narrow your questions to something I can answer in this lifetime." She looked again at John. "You see, this geis would not have worked on just anyone. It was made for him. It attached to his prior loyalties, history of obeying commands and his love for you." She shook her head. "Very impressive."

Sherlock turned to John to just look at him. He could read anything and everything about his mannerisms, his personality, what he'd had for breakfast! But he could not see any sort of magical outline. Nothing. Just plain John Watson, his flatmate and only friend.

"I'm a very quick study. If you have books and written information, I could read through them very quickly."

Another look at John, feeling strangely touched.

John turned pink at the witch's words and avoided Sherlock's look.

"This was not the deal, Mr. Holmes. Demonstration and information, not an in-depth schooling." The woman scowled. "There is one book you may read. She turned to a bookcase that had not been there before and pulled out a slim journal. It didn't look very old, but she handed it to Sherlock. "These are the very basics. Read carefully, the writing will vanish when you have finished."

"What sort of favor would I have to give you to receive schooling?" He smiled at her, trying to be charming again and accepting the book with care, treating the cover with the utmost respect. "I do appreciate what you have done for me thus far and I look forward to you calling on me. For clarity's sake, I'm most useful as a chemist and a detective."

"We are aware of your uses. And you are wearing out your welcome, Mr. Holmes. I suggest you leave before we decide your thrall is more use as a hound." She winked at John and it was not friendly.

"Very well. Thank you for your insight. You've made a believer of me." Tucking the journal into his coat, he stepped to the side to wait for John to gather his bearings. "Come along, John. We're being bade farewell."

John did not need to be told twice. He quickly led the way out of the building and gladly into the frigid temperatures of twilight London. His mind was still whirling, trying to decide what had actually happened in there and if he really wanted to know.

Once they were outside and walking towards a main road to catch a cab, Sherlock went absolutely silent, only paying attention to where they were going out of necessity. The wind cut through him and he hardly noticed.

The doctor nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone buzzed. "Jesus! Ah." He took it out to find five messages from Mycroft, all variants of [Where are you? Are you okay? Is Sherlock okay?] John actually felt a shiver, have gone out of Mycroft's range for the first time.

He convinced his fingers to send a message back, [We're fine. Safe. ish. JW]

Sherlock didn't register the sound of the keystrokes, just kept walking like a man possessed. Focus was good. He could focus on getting home and not on reconsidering his entire life's work.

John waved down a cab and the men rode home in silence.

Silence in the cab. Silence on the stairs. Silence in the flat. Sherlock sat down on the sofa and gave in to shivers for the first time all day.

John meanwhile made it halfway to his chair before collapsing and shaking. His cheeks were well damp before he realized he was crying. Ashamed, he curled up, hugging his knees, and hid his face.

The crying startled Sherlock. Point of focus. "...John?" It wasn't a behavior he'd ever observed from his friend before.

John didn't answer. Just curled in on himself. Hoping if he made himself small enough, life would make sense again.

Sherlock went from startled to scared. "John. John, st-..." The command died on his lips. Was this something he should just let John experience? It seemed like he should. Should he... try and comfort him? How? How did ordinary people do this?

"John, I-I'm sorry. It's all right, now."

A hysterical laugh came from the ball that was John, "How can you say that, Sherlock? How can anything ever be alright? I was a dog, Sherlock. I was a _DOG_." His voice broke.

Sherlock's hands were shaking but he clenched them into fists. Oh, no. No, no, no. One of them had to be the calm one. They weren't both allowed to break down. "Yes. Yes, you were." Shutting down seemed to be the next best thing.

"How, Sherlock? What does that mean? I don't-I don't...I can't..!" John's eyes were wide as he started sucking in breaths too sharply.

"I won't command you, but...you really should...not do that..." Sherlock had a white knuckled grip on the knees of his trousers.

John nodded frantically at the man, asking with his frightened eyes.

The permission was all Sherlock needed. "All right. Stop it, John. Calm down."

John let out a sob as he was finally able to take in air. He uncurled and laid himself out on the floor, hands at his sides, chest heaving. He brought a shaking hand to his forehead; his eyes shut tight, teeth clenched. Swallowing a couple time, he spoke, "Sherlock, water, please."

Water. Yes. Sherlock moved to the kitchen and accidentally knocked down (and shattered) two glasses before he was able to fill one and bring it back to John, crouching down.

Pulling himself up with the chair leg, John sat and took the glass, splashing it everywhere as he tried to get the liquid to his mouth. With Sherlock so close, it was more than John could resist to lean against the man, quiet tears darkening the blue shirt.

Sherlock didn't mind, or at least he didn't seem to. Fully seating himself on the floor, he allowed John to lean into him while he took himself through a deep breathing exercise, pushing everything back, back, back for John's sake and for the sake of his pride.

John didn't move, he just listened to Sherlock's heartbeat as it gradually slowed to regularity. John didn't even notice when he fell asleep.

Sherlock did notice as John fell asleep, but only reclined back against a chair and held John against him. His mind was eating at itself as he just stared at the wall, holding John closer.


	6. In Which Sherlock is (Not Really) Fine

A while later, John shifted in his sleep and woke with a start as his head slid down Sherlock's chest. He blinked himself the rest of the way to consciousness and pushed his palms to his eyes, wiping away the residue from his tears. Tears? Oh... Oh. Right. He took a deep breath to compose himself then looked over at Sherlock, still awake and deep in thought.

He was still holding John in the same grip as earlier, hardly having moved at all. His eyes had dried out from just staring, mind turning over and over like an engine that couldn't quite start. Thoughts ripped and tore through his mind. The entirety of reality reforming...

"Sher..lock," John cleared his throat and tried again, "Sherlock," he said more firmly, "are you all right? You should get some sleep..."

He tried to pull away from the man, but in an echo of the morning, Sherlock's grip was tight and he seemed not to hear John. The doctor rubbed his hand along the detective's arm, trying to bring him back to the present.

"...?" Sherlock made a noise of query and his eyes finally focused, but he didn't let John go until three seconds later. It was sort of embarrassing that he'd been holding onto him like that, but it had kept him anchored. "I'm fine."

John rubbed at his neck, stretching and let out a mirthless laugh, "Sorry, stupid question. You're not fine, I'm certainly not fine. But..."he paused, trying to sort out how best to put it, "are we both still here?" Part of John wished he hadn't said anything, just kept lying there against Sherlock but he brushed it away.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course we are." And of course he was fine. Everything was fine. Nothing could be more fine! Sherlock still didn't move from the same spot, arms falling uselessly to his sides and the rest of his body sagging onto the floor. Back to deep breathing and starting to zone back into the mind palace.

Shaking his head, John stood stiffly, grimacing as his knees cracked. "Come on, Sherlock—let's get you into bed at least." He hooked a hand under the detective's arm and started to haul him to his feet. Sherlock was never going to be able to sleep after this. A thought occurred to John as he hustled Sherlock to his room.

Being pulled up to stand seemed to shock Sherlock back into awareness. Awareness of the outside world really wasn't what he wanted at the moment. More time to gather himself and think of all the possible ways that magic could still be proven nonexistent was what he really wanted. Reality meant facing the impossible and the impossible... just couldn't be.

"Shhh, Sherlock, it's all right." John could see the detective was not in the best way. He helped the man into bed, tugged off his shoes and let him sit upright with the sheet up to his waist. Then John entered his own room, and shook out a couple pills. This wasn't ideal, especially after the escapade of the day before but... This was the only way Sherlock would sleep. Grabbing a glass from the kitchen, John stepped around the broken remains of the other two and went to the table. He ground the pills into powder, then slid them from the table into the cup which he filled with water. Tapping at Sherlock's door frame, John entered, glass in hand and offered it to Sherlock. "Here, have some water. Doctor's orders, all right? If you're not going to sleep, you can at least keep your transport hydrated."

Sherlock took the glass but didn't move it to his lips, just held it in his hand and let the condensation collect on his fingers. John had his panic attacks outwardly and that was fine. Sherlock took them into himself and didn't let them manifest as long as his iron will could control it. Although his heart pounded and his mind spun in useless circles, he still breathed evenly and seemed eerily calm.

John frowned and sat next to his friend, "Please Sherlock. Give me this at least. You said you would allow me to doctor you more..." It was a play on whatever guilt Sherlock might feel but it was also far more true than John wanted to believe. If he could keep Sherlock safe and (relatively) healthy then not all was lost. The world may be spinning out of control, but he was here with Sherlock and that was not going to change.

Sighing, Sherlock looked at the glass of water. Rather than drinking it slowly, he pushed the cold glass against his lips and tipped it back, gulping the water down just to get it out of his way. When he was finished, he set it down onto his nightstand with a shaking hand, retracting it quickly before he thought John would notice. "A glass of water isn't exactly doctoring me..."

Relaxing a little after Sherlock had finished the glass, John shrugged, "It'll make you feel better and it'll make me feel better. It's doctoring enough for the moment." Sherlock was pale. John wanted to put a hand to his forehead and check his temperature but decided that would not be terribly welcome at the moment.

Settling back against the pillows, Sherlock sighed again. He shivered even though he wasn't cold. Transport responding to psychological distress without his permission, but he could play it off. "I keep telling you I'm fine."

"And I keep telling you, I know when you're not." John pulled the duvet up over Sherlock, to his chest, then settled in to wait. He would go to bed when Sherlock was asleep and he hoped to God he didn't dream tonight.

"You keep giving me drugs." Sherlock slid further under the duvet like he intended to hide from John. Oh, he could fight the drugs, certainly. "What have you given me this time?" ...he could fight them and it would result in hallucinations and strange behavior. John could live with his mistake. Or...he could close his eyes and not fight it.

John froze for a moment, then smirked, "I have no idea what you're on about Sherlock. Why don't you just relax for a bit? Take five minutes to relax then we can talk about everything that happened. All right?" John tucked the sheets around Sherlock and waited. With Sherlock's stature, it would be ten more minutes tops before the man was out cold.

"Don't insult my intelligence, John." All right. Sherlock was going to fight it, then. Shifted. Sat back up and glared. John's calculations would be wrong if he put his mind to it. Oh, and he was stubborn. "What did you give me?"

Sighing, John replied, "Would you just trust me? Just this once? Lie back and go to sleep. Please. The world will be just as insane and confusing in the morning. I promise."

"What. Did. You. Give me."

"It was a glass of water, Sherlock. Go to sleep." John stood and went to the door, "Good night. I'll see you in the morning."

The glass smashed against the floor as Sherlock knocked his side table over, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and slipping out of it. "John. Tell me."

"Dammit Sherlock! It was just a few OTC sleep aides! And we're going to run out of glasses if you keep doing that." John strode forward, grabbing the taller man and pushing him back on to the bed, Sherlock was already slightly wobbly on his feet and John used that to his advantage, making sure the bed edge hit him at the knees, he tossed Sherlock's legs the rest of the way up and wrapped them tightly in the sheets.

"Damn the glasses!" Sherlock began shouting, "Damn _everything_, John! None of it matters and none of it ever will again!" Oh, he chose five minutes from sleep to start freaking out... he would. "One bit of hocus pocus and entire crime scenes could have been altered or faked! Everything I've ever done, every case I've ever worked could all be the work of a force that shouldn't bloody exist!" He threw himself over onto his side away from John, panting.

There it was. John worked to keep the pity from his face, Sherlock would not approve. "Sherlock, it's all right. You're fine. Your cases are fine. You've been brilliant, yeah? Consulting detective? Calm down...shhh." Putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, he turned the man onto his back and pulled the duvet back up, hand going to Sherlock's forehead, then his neck, then John grabbed hold of his hand and just held it.

"Magic could have been used to fool all of you into only thinking that. I could be the most moronic organism in the history of creation." His world was falling apart and he was fighting sleep at the same time. This was going to turn into a bad reaction. "Everything...everything, John. Everything...it could all be a lie."

"Oh shut up, Sherlock. If there's one thing you know for certain it's that you're clever. Ridiculously, annoyingly clever. You'll figure this out. _We _will figure this out. But we'll do so _tomorrow_." John knew everything Sherlock was saying was true, but he had to play it off. Be his old self. "You know. I do have a rubber mallet in my bag. It won't leave mark on you and I would be very happy to use it." He rubbed his thumb over the top of Sherlock's hand, "Go to sleep, Sherlock. It will all be all right."

"You can't do this. You can't... you can't." Sherlock gripped John's hand and squirmed, trying to turn back onto his side. "You can't drug me...and then just leave..."

Guilt spiked through John. "You need to sleep, Sherlock. This was the only way, you know that..." John wrapped his other hand around their clasped ones.

"Don't leave me..." Transport decided to give up on him, eyes fluttering and struggling to stay open.

"I won't, Sherlock. I won't. Never." John squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly as the other finally fell into unconsciousness. He scooted carefully onto the bed and laid himself down beside Sherlock. It would never occur to John that the geis would have enforced Sherlock's words had he even thought about leaving. But he hadn't.

Again, Sherlock had wound around John in sleep with an almost possessive grip. This time, it wasn't just his arm but his entire torso. His forehead was pressed against John's collarbone in a way that couldn't have been comfortable—and wasn't at all for John—and his legs were curled up tightly. Like a child curling up, still dead to the world.

John woke, uncomfortable, but when he realized it was Sherlock he tried to shift slowly into a better position without waking the man. He slid himself down the bed a bit so that Sherlock's head was more in the hollow of his neck and shoulder then turned his face away and tried to sleep again. A few minutes later he let out a frustrated sigh and faced the ceiling. Another few minutes passed before he gave up and turned his chin to rest on the top of Sherlock's head. Finally, he settled; the warmth of the other man's regular exhales against his neck.

An hour or so later Sherlock's hands were clenched into John's shirt, the regular breaths turned more rushed.

Slowly becoming more aware, John tilted his head down, chin pressing into Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock?" He said quietly, not sure whether to wake the man. Not sure whether he _could_.

A twitch and a shiver. The younger man's hands were clenching and unclenching sporadically. Legs twitched but never uncurled. His jaw was clenched so strongly that his teeth were grinding.

"Come on, Sherlock." John reached around the other man, and shook his shoulder. "Sherlock, you're okay...You're dreaming. I'm right here."

Twitching. There was a sound sort of like speech that left the sleeping man, but it made no sense and was possibly not even in English. Pulling at John's shirt and jerking when he was shaken. Drugs would not make it easy to be pulled out of sleep.

Damnit. "Shhh...Sherlock, shh... You're okay...You're fine...everything is fine..." John hugged the man tightly, strange to be dwarfing his taller stature. He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder slowly, trying to calm him down.

"Nnh...nnh!" Trapped. Trapped! Trying to pull away and letting John's shirt go. Whatever demons he was fighting in his dreams were strong and not letting go. He started to strike out, but it was mostly weak pushes and taps.

John was torn. If Sherlock kept flailing, he might hurt himself. But if John tried to restrain him, he might fight harder. John loosened his grip on the man and contented himself just running his fingers through Sherlock's hair and rubbing his shoulder. "Shh...Shh.. you're all right, Sherlock, you're all right..."

Shaking. Shaking more. Twitching more. Thrashing.

...Was he going into a seizure or fighting off his nightmares? Damnit Damnit Damnit. John held the shaking man down; moving so that his knees were straddling the man's legs and hands holding down his arms. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, you need to wake up. Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes shot open wide, mouth opening to inhale a great gasp that should have come out as a scream. No. He wouldn't scream. Even unaware of his surroundings and just coming out of sleep, he wouldn't scream. Instead, he held his breath and stared up, unseeing. Trying to come back to reality and wake.

"Jesus! Sherlock!" John jolted back in surprise. "Sherlock, It's me, it's John...! You're all right, it was a nightmare. You're all right..!"

He continued to hold his breath until the threat of the scream was gone and he risked passing out again. Once he'd exhaled, he gasped for air and tried not to allow his body to shake, clenching muscles, trying to slow his breathing. "...I...I'm...f...fine."

John shook his head fiercely. "Stop trying to tell me that!" He took a breath of his own and climbed off the man. "Just breathe and relax, you're all right, it's safe...just calm down."

"I know that! St...stop...I'm..." He turned away from John, ashamed of involuntary reactions to the nightmare. "...it...just an adverse reaction..."

"Sherlock. I know what it's like to have nightmares. It's fine." He put a hand back on Sherlock's shoulder. "Just shut up and breathe for a minute, yeah? Doctor says."

"I don't...I don't dream...never. I don't..." Trying to breathe would be good, he decided. Why wouldn't his transport just stop...doing whatever this was and listen to him?!

"Everyone dreams, Sherlock. It's part of the process. Just because you don't remember it..." John sighed. "You'll be all right. I promise I won't ever drug you again all right? I'm sorry."

"Why won't it stop?" Sherlock pushed himself up to sit, hands shaking as they scrubbed over his face.

Dear God, it hurt when Sherlock asked questions he didn't already know the answer to. "I..I don't know Sherlock. You'll be all right though. You just need to calm down." He kept saying that, wishing he had better advice.

Still shaking and a bit woozy from the remnants of the sleep aids in his system, Sherlock slipped out of bed and towards the toilet. He needed a shower and he needed it _now_.

"Sherlock? Where are you-would you let me help you?" John stumbled out of the bed himself and grabbed Sherlock under the arm. "Here."

Finally, Sherlock did. After a moment of brief anger and something else like a scream of frustration stifled by holding his breath, he let himself flop into John, his face in the crook of his neck and arms down at his sides. Completely defeated by his own subconscious.

"Umf! Really, Sherlock?" John half supported half carried the man to the bathroom and, with very little help, stripped him to his pants, got him over the lip of the tub and sat him down. John turned on the water, realizing belatedly that it would've been best to be able to test the temperature first as it came out very cold.

Sherlock flinched at the cold but didn't jerk away, letting it hit him until it felt like little numbing razors grazing over his skin. He could have stood up and adjusted the temperature or shooed John out of the room, but he was starting to zone out again.

John fiddled with the temperature dial making sure it was more comfortable. "Sherlock, are you all right here? Do you need anything?" John found himself sitting next the bathtub rubbing Sherlock's damp shoulder. Without clothing the man had no defenses. He was thin and wiry, like a praying mantis. He was too pale and he seemed both too young and far too old.

"Leave me," Sherlock said after a pregnant pause, shrugging John's hand off from his shoulder. He was a grown man for God's sake! And as far as he was concerned, he was fine. Just fine. Waking up from possibly the only nightmare he'd ever had (he could have just deleted nightmares) and not having control of his transport only made him want to be alone, deal with it alone, overcome it alone. John couldn't see him like this.

"Sherlock!" John felt himself stand up and exit the room. Before he shut the door, he called to his friend, "I just want to make sure you're all right!" Damn Sherlock. Sure it was embarrassing to need help. It was always embarrassing to need help, that didn't mean you could just _decide_ to handle things on your own. Frustrated, John went into his own room and tossed himself on the bed. Fine. If Sherlock wanted to be alone. Fine. He rolled onto his side and tried to find a comfortable spot to sleep.

Sherlock hadn't meant that as a command...but it was just as well. Bowing his head over his knees and hugging his arms around them, he stayed under the spray and just let his mind chase itself in circles. Round and round, scratching itself raw and coming back for another round. There he stayed even after the water went cold.

John had rolled around on his bed for a couple hours, listening to the shower run. Then he got to his feet and paced. Sherlock was going to get hypothermia at this rate. He went and knocked at the door. "Sherlock? You okay in there? You should probably come out soon... I have tea...?" Damn damn damn.

Was someone speaking to him? ...Oh. Yes. That must have been John coming back to make sure he hadn't...what? Slipped in the bath like a child? How long had he just been sitting there? If he hadn't felt sleepy before as the drugs wore off, he was drowsy now, sighing into his knees. When had it gotten cold? "...can...c...come in."

Finally. "Sherlock, you must be freezing. Come on." John shut off the water and tossed their fluffiest towel his way. "Here, dry yourself off. I'll get some tea to warm you up."

Sherlock curled his hands almost uselessly around the corners of the towel, pulling it around himself and sitting in the same position as before. Tired...

Rolling his eyes, John packed the towel around Sherlock and pulled him up. "Off to bed now." He toweled off the man the best he could and tossed him into bed, pulling the duvet up around him. He returned a short minute later with two tea cups, one he put carefully in Sherlock's hands, the other he took a sip from.

The shivers were completely involuntary. Sherlock sipped at his tea like it was an automatic action, still staring out into a universe only he could see. Shutting down was better than trying to rationalize it all. This was going to be something beyond him for the rest of his life...an important tidbit they didn't teach in school that he couldn't learn every little facet of.

John watched his flatmate worriedly. The man was more distant than usual, eyes blanker than he'd ever seen. It was difficult to simply sit by and watch Sherlock struggle silently against something John couldn't help him fight. "Sherlock, tell me what you're thinking?"

"...it would take weeks to tell you everything I'm thinking and even longer to explain." Too much. Too, too much. What he wouldn't give for a nice vial of morphine or four to silence the mind that was active on every thought possible, every synapse firing and misfiring with the overwhelm.

Frustrated, John hung his head, "You're clever. Try to summarize. I can't just watch you go insane..." the last phrase was muttered behind his hands as he pulled them down his face.

"Everything. I'm thinking of everything. EVERYTHING, John! Everything...and it won't stop. I can't just shut it off." Insane was an adequate way to describe how he felt. The teacup was set down gently on his nightstand so he could curl himself up and shiver without it, hands fisting in his hair.

John stood, leaning over his friend, hands fluttering over him uselessly. "Oh, Sherlock...You're all right...I'm sorry..." This was horrible. Sherlock was hurting and there wasn't a damn thing John could do about it.

Why couldn't he just make it stop? John was worrying over him and that was only adding to it. "Stop...stop! Please...stop...make it stop...drug me again! Something stronger..." Oh...that had been a command. Should he take it back?

John paled, "Sherlock, take that back." His feet led him out of the room, "Sherlock!"

He returned, face now red with anger and frustration. "Please, stop this. I don't want to do this. Please." He set down his medical bag on the bedside table.

Sherlock should take it back. His transport had been abused enough in the past few days, hadn't it? ...and John. John was so upset. He, too, had been abused enough in the past few days. How else was he supposed to make it all stop, though? "F...fine...I take it back. Just...just make it stop somehow, John."

John slumped in relief. "Thank you. And I'll try, Sherlock, I just...I don't know how." The doctor sat on the bed, rubbing his friend's shoulder, trying to comfort the man. He had never felt more helpless. For a moment, he rethought the syringe of morphine he had prepared. But no, no more of that.

Without his realizing it, John began humming quietly some song or combination of songs and he closed his eyes, moving his hand in a gentle circle.

Was he a child now? Shame heated Sherlock's face, which he burrowed into his knees to hide. Oh, how he longed for a quiet, dreamless state. Nothingness was appealing... although John had become a good point of focus. He wanted John as far away from him as possible so he couldn't witness the breakdown. He wanted John as close to him as possible to keep him from self-destructing. Letting out a cry of frustration, he tugged at his hair and started to slump towards John. The man would never judge him. This weakness was temporary.

"Shh shh shh.." John moved his hand to Sherlock's head and loosened the man's grip on his own hair. "It's all right, Sherlock. I'm here. It's all right." It was strange to be comforting this detective. Sherlock lived his life above everyone else. Distant and distinctly aloof. Now, here he was, curled in his bed, nearly whimpering with some form of anxiety or depression that was solely his own with John trying to calm him like he would a wounded animal, with soft touches and kind words. Scooting onto the bed, John set himself so Sherlock could rest against his thigh. He continued humming.

It didn't seem to be helping going by Sherlock's outward reaction. It didn't seem to be escalating further, however... after a few minutes, he uncurled from the tight ball he'd been in and moved himself up again, directly against John's chest with an arm wrapped around him like the army doctor was the anchor tethering him to sanity. He considered commanding John to forget about this already...

John returned the embrace, pulling Sherlock closer, his chin on Sherlock's hair, murmuring into Sherlock's ear things like, "You're all right, everything is fine, it's all fine...shh...shh." As odd as the entire situation was, John could not deny part of him was glad for the contact. It had been so long since he felt close to anyone and it only made sense that the impossible detective would be the one to bridge that gap.

"John." Sherlock tried to stop shaking, wanting John's comfort to be more effective than it was. ...Oh. He must have been cold, actually...and John was warm. "You're very good, John."

"It's okay, Sherlock, you don't have to talk. I'm here...I'm not going anywhere. You're fantastic, Sherlock, you'll be just fine." John smiled against his Sherlock's hair and gave him a light squeeze.

Sherlock believed John deserved so much more for his efforts. For his kindness. For all the torment he'd been through.

"John... feel happy. Feel content. These are temporary conditions in any lifetime, but I want you to feel them now."

A wave of joy washed over John, he let out a long sigh, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Laughing as the feeling faded smoothing into a warm happiness, John hugged Sherlock close and placed a kiss on the top of his head. "Thank you... I just wish I could do the same for you."

It actually helped Sherlock more than he would have thought. John's switch to joy was making him relax slowly but surely...until, that was, he was gifted with a kiss. He jolted at the affection, confused by it. Then again, John was high on his happiness at the moment. Sherlock let it go. "It's better that you can't."

John laughed again, "And why would you say that? Hmm?" he smiled, glad Sherlock was finally relaxing, glad he was able to help. Feeling Sherlock start at his kiss John had a fleeting sensation that he had over stepped some boundary, some line he had set for himself... But it didn't matter. Sherlock was here and so was John. Everything was going to be fine.

"Trust me. It's just better that way..." John was happy. This made him feel a creeping vine of content wind through Sherlock, just enough to hold some of the crushing weight of his mind at bay. He was starting to un-tense.

"I do trust you. You know I do. Quite possibly more than I have ever trusted anyone." John rocked them both a little and his humming started up again this time to the recognizable tune of _You Are My Sunshine_.

"Please stop that...that song." While he felt more relaxed, that song was one that annoyed him. He didn't want to stop hearing the sound of John's voice, though, nor did he want him to stop the soothing back and forth of rocking. "Talk to me. Just...talk to me."

Embarrassed, John explained, "My mum used to sing that to me when I was little. If I was scared or sick or something." He sighed, tired. But what to talk about? "You know, Lestrade was pretty pleased that you got them to that woman. Willing to overlook a possible possession of narcotics, pleased." John smiled, his eyes closing as he relaxed against the head board. "Anderson was beside himself. Said they had had a handle on it. What an arse."

Sherlock nodded, starting to relax more and at the same time pressing more into John. "...what else? Keep...keep talking to me. It doesn't matter what you say."

"Right..umm... Talked to Harry the other day, she's managed to stay sober for a few months this time. New record. I'm trying not to be too optimistic about it though... Been disappointed too many times before...Mrs. Hudson is on a new herbal tea kick, says it 'purifies the bones' whatever that means. She's been more active though, and the flat's the better for it so that's good." John continued rambling about the day to day events that Sherlock never cared about until the man lapsed into unconsciousness once more. Then John settled back against the headboard and fell asleep himself.

Morning (proper morning, not early hours of darkness morning) came and Sherlock was still pressed into John. He wasn't clinging to him, just mostly lying atop him with his head pressed to his chest, limbs haphazardly strewn everywhere.

John woke to a vicious crick in his neck and tilted his head sharply from side to side wincing when it cracked. Dazed for a moment he looked down and found Sherlock in his lap. The smile on his face faded when he remembered the previous day's events though. It all seemed completely unreal in the comfort of home, the warmth of a bed. Rubbing his forehead, John wondered whether to try to get up or to just wait for Sherlock.

He wouldn't have to wait too long. Sherlock opened his eyes and seemed to realize their situation. Slowly, slowly (with his back cracking on the way. Mmm, that felt delicious) he rolled off from John and lay down on his back, stretching out and yawning.

It was nice to see Sherlock looking so comfortable, but John knew it would only take a few seconds for Sherlock to realize, as he had, the suddenly new reality in which they were living. He tried to postpone it as long as he could, "That's two nights we've slept in the same bed. People will talk, you know," he tested a grin at his flatmate. "How'd you sleep?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose." No, he'd already been aware of their shifted reality from the moment John's waking up had also woken him. "And you?"

John shrugged, "Same." He was silent, waiting for Sherlock to talk about what happened, waiting to see what they would do next. He spared a thought for the journal still stuck in the detective's inner coat pocket, but figured Sherlock would ask for it when he was ready.

"You should probably make some tea, now." Sherlock didn't seem willing to talk about it yet. He considered ordering John to go out and get him a carton of cigarettes.

"If we're going to pretend to be normal, Sherlock, then I think it's probably your turn to make tea. No sugar for me, thanks." He shifted down in bed, groaning as his neck protested at the natural position. He pulled the duvet over his head and sighed contentedly.

"We're out of milk." Sherlock slid out of the bed, got his second best dressing gown on and padded to the kitchen. He boiled the kettle but stood and watched the bubbles come up for far longer than necessary before shutting it off. Steeped the teabags much longer than he should have because he couldn't seem to focus on the menial task. No sugar in either cup because what was the point? He brought the cups back into his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed with his own cup in his hands.

John dozed while Sherlock was away, and it was only the rattle of the cups and the dip in the mattress that made him lift the duvet reluctantly. With narrowed eyes against the light, he blinked at Sherlock, then at the cup of tea. Oh. So they were pretending to be normal. John wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but it had gotten him tea so maybe it was best not to think about it right now. He sat up and took the tea, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. "Ta, mate." He lifted his cup to Sherlock.

"Mm." Sherlock sat with his back to John, sipping at his tea just to have the caffeine and the warmth. Yes, he could pretend to be normal and domestic for a short period of time. He tried to focus on just...nothing. If the thoughts came back, they would assault him like a hive full of angry hornets.

Well this couldn't last. Eyeing the detective, John sipped at his tea, taking sips too large for the temperature. The suspense was going to drive him crazy, but if Sherlock didn't want to talk about it... No, that's wasn't fair. _He_ needed to talk about it so Sherlock was going to have to listen. "Sherlock," John started hesitantly, "about what happened yesterday..."

"What about it?" His voice sounded dull. Almost impatient.

John sighed. It was going to be like this. "What are we going to do?"

"What _can _we do?"

It was a good question. John paused and took another sip of his tea. "We could... egg Mycroft's place." It was as good a thing as any. He smiled to himself imagining Mycroft's face.

Sherlock just rubbed his forehead, grunting in frustration. There was nothing they could do, was there? "What do you want me to say John? Would you like me to come up with some sort of brilliant, self-aggrandizing plan? I did not even have proof of magic's existence until yesterday and until I can understand even a teeny tiny iota of how it works, I can't have any sort of plan."

John nodded, that was a fair response. "All right, well, you have the journal...apparently Mycroft know something about this...whole...thing." John waved his arms, trying to encompass the situation. "And, um... I feel as though I can safely say that you will never be bored again..?"

The look Sherlock shot John was an ugly one. "I'll research what I can. While I wouldn't call this boring, this does alter the entirety of reality as we know it."

Wincing, John went back to staring into his tea cup. Right, well... right. "I guess I'll-uh... I'll go get some milk then."

"This could even mean that milk is compromised. What if it's also treated by magic?"

The thought made John laugh, "Come on Sherlock, the world hasn't fallen apart yet. I'm sure the milk is fine. We've been drinking it for ages and haven't sprouted wings or anything." Despite his statement to get milk, John stayed firmly put in the warmth of Sherlock's bed. The strangeness of it occurred to him, but only outside of the present. It nagged at him and the doctor brushed it away and drank his tea.

"That doesn't mean it isn't possible to sprout wings. Extra limbs. ...Transform into an entirely form such as a canine..." Swallowing the rest of his tea quickly, Sherlock moved himself into the sitting room, going towards his coat to retrieve the journal. Now curiosity was overtaking the winding thoughts that told him reality was forever broken.

John shivered at his words and tried to forget the skin crawling sensation of fur growing and bones shifting. The comfort had left the room when Sherlock did though, so it wasn't long before he was up and wandering into the sitting room, stretching and yawning.

Flopping down into his chair and sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, Sherlock smoothed his fingertips over the cover of the journal. "I need to remain focused, John. If the witch's words are true, the text will disappear as I read it. I'll need to memorize everything." Taking a slow breath, he opened the cover and began to read the first page.

Curiosity getting the better of him, John walked to stand behind Sherlock, looking at the journal over his shoulder. This was insane. He watched as the pages of script and diagrams of plants and pentacles and protection circles vanished before he could do any more than read what they were. Sighing, he left Sherlock to it, the man read to quickly for John to follow along. After a few minutes of waiting around, he decided he may as well go get some milk. He put on some clothes and left quietly.

When John came back from Tesco's, Sherlock was in the exact same position. This time, though, he was flipping pages much more rapidly, memorizing the pictures and text as it appeared on the page rather than reading all of it at once. Mental snapshots were being taken just in case that would cause the text to remain on the page since it was technically unread, just downloaded to the Mind Palace for future accessing. He'd be able to go back later in deep concentration and write everything down as he saw it in his mind. Already, he was compiling a list of things he wanted to obtain to try and perform some of this magic himself. He didn't know if he was predisposition to be able to cast magic, but... he was going to try.

John put the milk away and some other foods stuffs he'd bought then sat in his chair and watched Sherlock. It was amazing to the man absorbing information. To see him let his mind run at top speed on a new problem. Tapping his fingers on his chair arm, John waited impatiently for the moment when Sherlock would close the book, set it down carefully, close his eyes and lean back, steepled fingers at his lips. After a few minutes of that, John knew it was all right to ask questions.

Sherlock was intent on getting through the entire journal. When it was dark outside and only the streetlamps were shining through the windows, Sherlock finally snapped the book closed almost hard enough to bend the binding and sat back with the book balanced on his knees, head back and eyes closed. Finally, finally, he'd begun to actually go over the information he'd absorbed. His hands were not together on his lips, rather under his chin, head bowed like he may have been praying.

Starting from the nap he hadn't realized he'd been taking, John sat up quickly and focused on Sherlock. He felt his eyebrows quirk. This wasn't right. Taking in the sight in front of him, John frowned a tiny frown that was more in his eyes than his mouth. He stood and walked over to Sherlock. Tapping the book on the man's knee, he waited for Sherlock's eyes to open, then asked permission with his eyebrows to take a look at it.

Sherlock opened one eye and sighed. "Don't disturb me right now. Help yourself."

With a quick roll of his eyes, John took the journal and returned to his seat, staring at the cover. He took a deep breath and then opened it. From the outside, it couldn't have had more than a hundred or so pages, but for every one he turned, there was always at least another twenty. That explained why it had taken Sherlock so long. The first couple hundred pages were blank and John flipped over them quickly. It was only when the black script appeared halfway down, mid-word that he stopped and began to read.

"Did it work? Is there still text?" Sherlock's eyes slit open, data still appearing in front of his eyes like search results in a database.

Looking up, John gave a brief nod," You've...got everything? Don't mind if it erases now?"

"Mental snapshots. I have everything I need." Sherlock tapped the side of his head and leaned back a bit more to go over the information. "Don't get too comfortable. We'll be going out."

Surprised, John asked, "Where? What for?" He closed the journal, finger marking his place.

"Out. For supplies. ...Actually, you don't have to come. I could do this myself, it's just a trip out. Nothing dangerous. Just need to see a few people."

John's interest was captured. "Which people?" He asked, "And what supplies?"

"Homeless network." He slowly uncurled his legs from his chest, feeling a bit stiff after sitting still for such a long expanse of time. "Oh...charcoal, chalk, a few herbs and roots. Salt. Actually, if you could go out and get a very large supply of salt…"

John sighed. "I was just at the store, Sherlock. I'm going to read, all right? Don't get into trouble and don't do anything stupid while you're out." He turned his attention back to the journal, opening it up and continuing to read about the necessary ingredients for a healing poultice. Grabbing a notebook on his side table, he began taking notes.

"Mm. When do I ever do anything stupid?" Sherlock whisked himself away to his room, getting dressed and hurriedly getting into his coat and scarf. His anxiety from the day before had transformed into a different kind of energy. Motivation. He had people to see, ingredients to gather... John was interested in healing poultices; Sherlock was interested in transmutation and second sight.

Snorting in response, John delved into the book, having to stop and remind himself every once in a while that what he was reading was no longer fiction. There was a short chapter on the mechanics, or the equivalent, of the magicks and he was fascinated. Strings of power attached to everything? Every person? That must've been what the witch could see on him. Why she could control him. His mind reeled and he set the journal down, getting up to pour himself a glass of scotch.

When his mobile buzzed, John didn't notice right away. It was only after a few more messages that he dragged himself from his chair and dug into his jacket pocket

[What happened last night? MH]

[Tell me Sherlock hasn't stuck his nose in this. MH]

[Do you know where he is right now? MH]

John rubbed the back of his neck and went back to his chair. [We need to talk, Mycroft. You and me. JW]

[Fine. MH] Came the reply to John's surprise. Then a horn honked outside.

John pulled on his jacket and moved down the stairs, the journal tucked away in his pocket. He was sure that Sherlock would not want it just lying around. As he sat in one of Mycroft's cars, John texted his flatmate:

[Going to see Mycroft. Took Journal. You all right? JW]

With the right ingredients, there would be no door Sherlock could not unlock. No trace he could not follow. No set of fingerprints ever again left unmatched in a police database. No more cold cases. No crime ever again left unsolved. He would be able to do anything and everything the Work would ever require. A few notes were passed off in a dark alley, scraps of paper with messages given to vigilant eyes and ears. As he made his way down back alleys he couldn't help looking behind himself every so often. He could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.


	7. IWTA Minor Talks and Major Blood Loss

AN: Sorry for the delay on this! We hope everyone is enjoying their lives and, ideally, this story! Thanks for the interests, the reviews and the reading—Much love! puffologic and imageofmadness  
PS. is being dumb and limiting the amount of characters for the title. It should read: In Which There are Minor Talks and Major Blood Loss

With the right ingredients, there would be no door Sherlock could not unlock. No trace he could not follow. No set of fingerprints ever again left unmatched in a police database. No more cold cases. No crime ever again left unsolved. He would be able to do anything and everything The Work would ever require. A few notes were passed off in a dark alley, scraps of paper with messages given to vigilant eyes and ears. As he made his way down back alleys he couldn't help looking behind himself every so often. He could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Knowing that he was well out of the range of CCTV cameras, Sherlock kept walking, turning his coat collar up and starting to move faster. He didn't exactly have a supernatural sense, but he did have a sixth sense about him when he needed it. His senses could usually alert him if a suspect was still in a building or if something was distinctly off about a situation. Presently he knew someone was following him. After a few more minutes of walking, he stopped and pressed his back to an alley wall, just waiting. He didn't hear footsteps. He didn't see anyone. After another minute of standing and watching, he turned his gaze upwards towards the rooftops. Oh...

A shape on the rooftop caught his attention, but moved back out of his sight just as he saw the silhouette. He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket but ignored it in favor of jumping atop a rubbish bin and grabbing onto the fire escape, pulling it down and climbing up. Whoever had decided to chase him from the shadows was about to come face to face with their quarry-turned-predator.

The fire escape was cleared with ease and Sherlock began pursuit. The shape in front of him was determined to be male, relatively well built, probably late twenties if not early thirties, old ankle injury, probably old but ill-treated and a gait that was too fast to follow. By his approximation, the man was moving about twenty kilometers per hour. Faster than an average or even well trained man could move. Going into a sprint, Sherlock shouted out: "Stop!"

Just as the chase was coming to a crescendo - the man had little choice but to stop, it was too long of a drop off the side of the building to not sustain crippling injury - Sherlock skidded to a stop with an air of accomplishment. Now he had him...

The man stopped dead, turned with a ferociousness one might expect from a lion and bore teeth. His eyes glowed a bright red.

Sherlock jumped back, his eyes widening. He took in what he was seeing and matched it with a similar creature of folklore. Many names from many cultures. Why on earth would a _vampire_ be following him only to run when he chased? Panting, his breath misting in front of him in great plumes, Sherlock spoke again: "What do you want? No - erase that, stupid question, - why are you trying to get it from _me_?" Wanting to appear more threatening than he was, Sherlock reached into his coat as though to grasp a weapon, squaring his shoulders.

"We're watching you, Mr. Holmes," the vampire growled, taking two steps back and dropping off the side of the building. Sherlock launched himself to try and catch the man, but he was too slow. When he looked over the side of the building to track the man he was gone. _Vanished_. Sherlock remained leaning there for a few good minutes just trying to catch his breath and thinking.

John was almost suspicious when the car pulled up to Mycroft's home instead of some dingy, barely lit warehouse. He nodded his thanks at the man holding open the door and walked inside, keeping his shoulders back and doing his best not to look out of place. Knocking once on the door to Mycroft's office, he entered warily, remembering the last time he'd come to meet the man.

"I assure you, there is no one lying in wait, John." Mycroft's smooth voice came from near the window.

John sighed, "Yeah, right. We need to talk about this whole geis thing, and _then _we need to talk about the fact that magic, is _bloody_ real." He struggled to keep his finger from pointing at the man, knowing Mycroft would just be amused by such a mundane threat.

Mycroft turned and granted John a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I suppose you would like to me explain why I thought putting a geis on you would help Sherlock?"

"No, I want-" John stopped, brow turning down. "Well, yes, actually." He watched the taller man move to a chair and John took a seat opposite.

"As you would guess, it is rather complicated. First and foremost, it was time Sherlock discovered the truth about our reality; that it is not, in fact, _ours_." Mycroft eyed John carefully, "I propose a trade, a question for a question. Hm?"

The doctor nodded.

Leaning back, Mycroft looked pleased, "Good. The second reason was for his own personal growth. You have seen yourself that he has been closer to relapsing in the past few weeks than he had been for months before. While he does not listen to me, he would listen to you _if_ you were truly upset about it. Sherlock does not care for himself, John. He cares for _you_. And he tries his very best to care about those things which you yourself care about. It is in this way, and this way alone that Sherlock will learn to care for himself." He let John absorb this information. "The third aspect, was, as always, to reassure my little brother that I am a part of his life, whether he likes it or not."

"My question for you, John is: where did the two of you go last night and _what_ did you do?"

"That's two questions," John muttered, frowning. "We went to see some witches. Will you get someone to remove the geis?"

Mycroft returned the frown," I do have a man who can remove it, bit whether I will have him do so remains to be seen. What. Happened. Last. Night."

John leaned back, feigning a causal response, "Oh not much. I was turned into a dog, Sherlock is now indebted to a coven." John decided he was going to leave that line of questioning for the moment, "How long have you known about..." It still felt silly to say, "How long have you known about magic?"

To his credit, Mycroft reined in any surprise he felt at John's answer. "Nearly four months. And how did he react?"

"About as well as I did." John's mouth formed a tight line, remembering Sherlock from the night before. "Witches are real, what else?"

"As far as we've found, vampires, fairies or The Fae as they insist on being called, and we've started a dialog with a very _very_ old dragon in Northern Wales. And how did you react?" Mycroft's mouth twitched into a smile for a fraction of a second at John's reaction.

Though he tried to school his face into nonchalance, John felt his mouth drop in disbelief. "A dragon? An... an _actual_ _dragon?_" He shook his head to clear it. "I had the first major breakdown I've had since returning from Afghanistan. Who is 'we'?"

John may have imagined it but he thought he saw a twinge of sympathy in Mycroft's eyes. The man sighed, "A group of very few, very privileged individuals who are capable of this type of information and who possess the diplomacy necessary to negotiate with...whomever we may met. Where is Sherlock now?"

"Out shopping." John answered shortly.

"No," Mycroft replied, "He's not." He watched John's eyebrows come together with worry.

Sherlock made his way down from the building and back down the same alley he'd been traversing before. This time the sense that someone was following him was even stronger, if not just because he _knew_ he was being watched and followed. Regardless, he was going to make his way to a little known curiosity shoppe where he knew he would find most of the items he was looking for. In fact, if he knew exactly what to say, he was certain he could find more than herbs and magical items. Laying on the charm, he weaseled a book out of the store owner. It was a good chunk of change out of his bank account, but he'd come prepared with bank notes so that his card couldn't be traced back to the place. Stuffing the book and bags into his coat, he made his way swiftly out. He didn't see anyone behind him even when he turned around, but this time he heard footsteps. Several pairs of them.

"Truly, this is becoming an annoyance," Sherlock said into the darkness, watching as long shadows stretched into the dim light that there was. Multiple figures. One female, two male...at least. Maybe more. By the sound of the footsteps, definitely more. "If you're looking to hire me, do send an email. I prefer that to this stalking business. Hiding in the dark... really, did you not think I would be aware of you? Oh...no, you _wanted_ me to be aware of you. Chasing me out of your territory or following me home?"

Sherlock turned to see five pairs of glowing red eyes. One pair was lower to the ground...a child. His eyebrow ticked in intrigue. "Undoubtedly this is a small gathering. Are you coming to warn me of the dangers I'm invoking by participating in the occult?"

None of them spoke, but he distinctly made out the female stroking her teeth with her tongue.

Realization. "I'm a smoker, a drug user and very possibly anemic from fasting. I don't believe I'd make a good meal for you. Since I'm aware of what you are also, you should already be under the assumption that I know how to dispatch of your kind." He reached into his coat as though to pull a weapon again. The closest thing to a stake he had was a wooden pencil.

He felt the wind shift around him signifying fast movement and dropped into a defensive posture, presenting his shoulder to the potential attacker. There was just enough time for his eyes to widen before he heard a hiss very near to his face and a thrill of fear shot through him.

"Sherlock left the vicinity of the CCTV cameras a full thirty minutes ago. You didn't know." Mycroft rubbed his temples, eyes shut in pain or annoyance-it was difficult to tell.

"No, I didn't know," John answered unnecessarily. He found himself suddenly anxious. "We're not finished with this, but I need to go find Sherlock." He stood up and walked to the door. "Good bye, Mycroft."

Mycroft merely nodded at his retreating form. "Good evening, Dr. Watson."

Walking quickly, John ducked into the car waiting for him. The driver pulled away from the curb and turned onto a street that would take them back to Baker Street. Suddenly, a feeling a dread struck John. Then pain flared in his head. "What the hell..?" Taking a breath, the doctor stared out the window. When the pain hit again, it left him gasping against the back of the seat in front of him. The driver turned slightly, "Sir?"

John groaned in response. "Turn left. Turn left now." The pain eased slightly as the driver obeyed.

"And where would Sir like to be dropped off?"

His eyes screwed up with pain and determination John replied, "I don't know yet."

A series of gasped out directions later, John stumbled out of the car and waved the driver off. He stood a moment in the dark, palm pressed against his temple before he found his feet moving him inescapably down an alleyway.

The next thing Sherlock knew was that he was looking up at the night sky, dazed and lethargic with his back on the ground. He had a sense that he'd lost a goodly amount of time, but he didn't feel like moving. It was cold, difficult to breathe and he felt like sleeping. Not good.

Knowing the last thing he should be doing was lying in an alley fighting sleep, Sherlock raised his head and (ow, neck pain. What had caused neck pain?) took in his surroundings. It was the same alley he'd been standing in before. He was several meters away from his previous position before his memory lapse...and he was alone. There weren't five vampires stalking him. From what he could see in the dim with his vision fuzzing in and out, he had defensive wounds on his hands and arms, tissue under his fingernails and his knuckles were split on his dominant hand. He'd fought, then. Dark, shining blood on the bricks above him...that would have been about head-height. He felt over his head for a wound and didn't find one. He'd fought well, then. There were scrapes in the brick that weren't there when he arrived, scuffs on the ground that told a tale of someone attempting to get their balance (judging by the size of the scuff and the material left behind, those were marks made by his own shoes) and several other blemishes on the ground and on the surrounding walls. Five against one were hardly fair odds, but he did have to allow himself a smirk that he'd fought against five supernatural beings and caused injury. Patting himself down to insure that he still had all of his purchases of the day (he did), he let himself put his head back down on the ground again and closed his eyes. Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes more of rest and he would get himself up and moving again.

After walking unerring towards _somewhere_ for about fifteen minutes, John heard heavy, pained breathing around the corner. He slowed, unsure, then, back to the wall, turned his head to see who (or what) was there. A second later he was on his knees next to Sherlock. He looked terrible. No color in his skin, bleeding, scratched up. His medical eye was sharp as he hovered over the man, taking in his pallor, clammy skin, and rapid breathing. Sherlock's eyes had flashed open when John turned the corner but he had calmed the man quickly and the detective had lain still while John checked him over for concussion and spinal injuries. But there… Puncture wounds to the neck. Bite wounds. Feeling a shiver run down his back, he asked, "My God, Sherlock...What happened?"

"I...d'n remember..." Oh, was he slurring now? Unacceptable. Taking inventory of himself for perhaps the first time, Sherlock realized he was actually in a great deal of pain though he felt distanced from it. Everything felt muted and far away. "Five...five of 'em...five. Ev'dense...says I fought them."

"Jesus, Sherlock. Just...don't move. I'll call an ambulance. We need to you to a hospital _now_." Sherlock could still bleed out right here and was already close to it. He pulled off his jacket and laid it over his friend, putting a hand to Sherlock's neck, a couple fingers on either side of the wound to slow the bleeding. He dug out his phone to call 999.

"No...no, no...not going anywhere in an amb'lance...stop." His eyes fluttered shut. A moment later, he jerked himself awake, eyes open as wide as he could get them. "They were...were vampires, John...how'd you get here?"

With a noise of exasperation John put the phone into his trouser pocket, "Dammit Sherlock! We don't have time for you to be difficult! Besides I'm not actually totally clear on that point myself." Frowning, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and fell silent, eyes focused on a point in front of his nose as he pressed to get the man's pulse. After a few moments of consternation, John made a noise of frustration and worry—Thready pulse, heart rate nearly too quick to count.

"Hm? ...oh...is it bad?" ...Oh! And he'd just given John a command, hadn't he? "Oh...you...you can have your phone if you want. If...if it's that bad." The way John was looking at him... Sherlock couldn't focus his vision long enough to fully appreciate the worry over his face. Then he blacked out.

John was grabbing at his phone again when he was saved a response by one of Mycroft's men rounding the corner. "A car for you, Gentlemen." He helped John carry Sherlock to the car. Sherlock awoke when he was being moved, then was out again. Once in the car and frantic with worry, John sat down, the detective's head in his lap as the driver assured him that proper medical professionals and equipment would be waiting at Mycroft's estate. John knew he was barking orders, but it was the only thing he could do at the moment other than try to keep Sherlock conscious and slow the bleeding. Get him help. Hypovolemic shock was one of the easier types of shock to treat, but by the look of him, Sherlock had lost an obscene amount of blood already. His medical mind ran through percentages and possible outcomes, face growing paler with every minute.

Sherlock woke up again with his head in John's lap, opening his eyes slowly and observing his expression. John was worried out of his mind.

"I'm not ready to be a vampire," Sherlock uttered, reaching to take John's hand with his own shaking one. He managed the tiniest of squeezes, trying to get John out of his own head. "I'm fine. Stop…stop thinking...it's-" _annoying_, he would usually say. Unconsciousness took him suddenly before he could finish his sentence, eyes rolling back. No matter how John begged or tried to rouse him, Sherlock wouldn't wake.

They returned to Mycroft's and, as promised, he had medical staff waiting. John watched as Sherlock was rushed into another room. He tried to push past the two men standing in front of the door but they stiff armed him away. Furious, he exclaimed, "I'm a bloody doctor! Let me help him!" Mycroft strode by and the guards allowed them both through.

John had been just in the nick of time. Getting to Sherlock and getting him here any later would have resulted in almost certain death (or vampirism). Vampire venom apparently allowed the victim to remain conscious far longer than the human body would otherwise allow. Unfortunately, it also prevented clotting which meant getting the bleeding under control was going to be a task. Once they'd gotten a line of blood into him, the medics already started calling for more bags of it. These were the most crucial moments after being drained by a vampire. They'd either save him now and he would remain human...or he would die and possibly be reborn as part of the undead.

John kept himself at Sherlock's side, eyes and ears open for anything he could help with. "Hang on, Sherlock. We've got this under control. You're going to be all right." It seemed all he had done recently was try to comfort Sherlock. This had been a bad couple of days. He held his flatmate's hand, checking continuously that the blood was flowing properly through the tubing. It was he who called for a couple blankets and he again who demanded help to work Sherlock's legs to return circulation to them. He tried to keep busy as he watched the color slowly, slowly return to Sherlock's face. After a few stressful hours, Sherlock was finally stable, his blood clotting normally.

Upon waking again some time later, Sherlock noted that he was in a rather plush and cozy bed with something very itchy taped to the back of his hand and a heating blanket tucked around him just under a down filled duvet. No expense spared, it seemed. Seeing fit to open his eyes and take in his surroundings, he cleared his dry throat, wiggled fingers and toes to make sure everything was still functional and then spoke: "Where's my coat?"

Lifting his head, John smiled tiredly, "s'over on the chair. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

After looking John over... it could wait. "Hm. It may be unseemly, but yes, I do need something. First, get me a glass of water - if I'm allowed oral fluids, that is. Second, you're exhausted. This bed is large enough for two and quite comfortable. Get into bed and sleep."

John nodded slowly, standing and searching through the room's cupboards until he found a few small glasses. He grabbed two and filled them from the tap. Setting the cups down within an arm's reach of Sherlock, John rounded the bed and crawled under the duvet, humming contentedly at the warmth. He was just considering asking Sherlock about what had happened when his conscious mind left him and he settled into sleep.

"Wake up when you're rested," Sherlock added softly, just in case John might remain asleep until he commanded him to awaken. Downing the cup of water within seconds, Sherlock flopped back against the pillows and, with John safely by his side, also allowed himself to succumb to sleep.


	8. In Which John is a Magic Man

A/N: Sorry for the delay. And don't worry, we have almost the entire thing written and it'll go for at least another ten chapters. At least. More like twenty. ...Or more. Anyway, I have a tendency to drop off the face of the map for weeks at a time, so feel free to bother me/us in comments or whatever so we (read: I) get back on the ball. Thanks for sticking with us! Enjoy!

Again, they were in a bed together. Again, Sherlock was halfway wrapped around John, as far as the IV cannula would extend anyway. This time Sherlock woke up first and seemed sort of surprised to find himself in such a configuration. It didn't mean he was going to move, however.

Mycroft was alerted that Sherlock had awoken and he sighed. He was not excited for the conversation that was to follow. Plastering on as much of a smile as he thought the situation deserved - which was not much of one - he opened the door and stepped through with a greeting to his little brother. "Good morning, Sherlock."

"Not anymore," Sherlock murmured into the pillow, detangling himself from John for posterity.

"No, don't get up. I insist. And really? That's how you greet your brother? After I saved your life?" Mycroft settled himself in a nearby chair with a cup of tea.

"Mm. I believe we could credit John with that more so than you."

"Ah, but that's where you would be wrong. John would never have been able to find you if not for me," Mycroft allowed himself satisfied smirk.

"I wouldn't be wrong and I'm still not going to feel indebted to you. Get on with it, Mycroft. Your pleasantries are making my teeth ache." Sherlock settled down under the duvet more, really not caring about what Mycroft had to say to him.

Typical. Mycroft tilted his head. "Sherlock, can we talk about how you barely survived the night?" he tried to keep the anger out of his voice.

"If you like. I don't remember most of it." Sherlock concentrated on the ceiling and grasped at what memories there were. "A group of five was stalking me. Before that, there had only been one. I never sought them out so I hardly believe this could be counted as my fault."

Mycroft clenched his fists tightly, "Why were you alone in the back alleys of London?"

"Why have I ever been? It had never led to something like this before." Sherlock remained neutral, but it was secretly pleasing that he was the one getting under his brother's skin instead of the other way around.

"Sherlock. You knew things were different. How could you be so imbecilic?" Mycroft clenched his jaw.

"Why should things be different? Why wasn't I attacked the several dozen other times I've been down the back alleys alone?" Sherlock tried very hard not to smirk. He succeeded.

"You discovered magic, Sherlock! Of course things are different!" Mycroft found himself pounding his fist on the arm of the chair. He shook his head once, and took a long breath before standing. "You are incredibly lucky I had the geis put on John when I did."

"_I_ discovered magic? Oh, oh, yes! Who was it that introduced me to that? Hmm, who could we _possibly_ have to thank for such enlightenment?" Sherlock was no longer amused, his brows dipping down.

Mycroft spun on his heels away from his brother, "Certainly, let's talk about me instead of your very nearly becoming a vampire! I've seen them Sherlock. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. I merely meant that once you understood the facade of your existence that perhaps you would take a little more care! Clearly, I gave you far too much credit."

"How would you like to finally say something useful to me instead of berating me?" Sherlock sat up and started to peel the tape off from the back of his hand. He would not be held captive here if this was to be the discussion they would have. "I will not fear to tread down the same alleys I have always visited. If you really care to know what I was trying to accomplish..." He started to pull the line out of his hand. "...I was gathering implements to better be able to protect myself against the big bad monsters lurking in the dark."

When John awoke, he didn't remember where he was at first. He laid still and listened- and that did it. He could hear Sherlock arguing with Mycroft. Sherlock was upright in the bed and clearly not listening to Mycroft's annoyed explanations. Mycroft sounded angrier than John had ever heard. Perhaps the older man did truly care for his brother. John stayed hidden in the covers, listening.

"You have _no idea_ what's out there and _no idea_ how to protect yourself and because you are incapable of admitting you don't know something you were nearly _killed_. Do you understand how close it was?" He pointed an angry finger towards John. "If he hadn't found you, you would be dead or worse! I did tell you not to stick your nose in this but do you ever listen? No, and you nearly died because of it. If it weren't for me and John, you'd still be lying in that alleyway in a pool of what was left of your own blood!"

"Once again, Mycroft, you're not telling me anything useful! I went out for research! For information on those things I don't know! Unless the next words out of your mouth are useful information on how to combat whatever creatures may be lurking in dark alleys or in broad daylight, I'm leaving! The sound of your voice is making my head ache and your chastising is completely and utterly _self-aggrandizing_ uselessness!"

John flinched under the covers.

Mycroft bit his tongue and smoothed out his demeanor. "You must know I worry, Sherlock. I will share with you all I know-if you stay put until someone has a chance to look you over. And let poor John out of bed, you know he's awake."

John put his head above the duvet. "Morning all."

Sherlock sat there for a long moment to consider. "Do as you will, John." Of course, he'd commanded John into bed, so he would need to command him out of it. "I will stay put that long and no longer. I don't want your medical team of people with questionable ethics anywhere near me, however."

John sheepishly crawled out of bed. He checked Sherlock's pulse, and his cuts and scrapes, paying particular care to the bandaged injury on the man's neck. After fluttering around for a few minutes, John stepped back and nodded his permission. "They did good work."

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow at his younger brother.

Sherlock gave Mycroft a 'see? I'm fine' look and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Where are my clothes?" Because a pair of loose sweats? That would never do. His reputation would be ruined. "I have research to do and I won't be held hostage here any longer."

Mycroft pointed, silent, at a small pile of folded clothes on the table. "You are hardly being kept hostage." He turned to address John, "Do you understand what happened last night? How you were able to find him?"

John looked to Sherlock, and then simply shook his head. He had a guess of course, but he was likely to get more information from Mycroft than by guessing.

Mycroft nodded, "I imagine you're aware that the geis compels you to follow Sherlock's order. It also forbids from harming him in any lasting way and will call you to protect him should he be in danger, as he was last night. As you see, this was far from 'meddling'." He turned a look on Sherlock.

"John, did you know," Sherlock said as he slipped out of bed and waited for his blood pressure to settle, "that Mycroft was a very fat child?" He could go on being petty and try to get the last word too! It would have to do in lieu of sawing at his violin to annoy his brother.

"The other children would sometimes call him Humpty Dumpty. When he didn't want to share his biscuits, he'd eat an entire packet to himself." Unabashedly, Sherlock was getting dressed in front of them.

Mycroft turned faintly pink and frowned deeply. "Of course," he said to John, "I'll have my man remove the geis in two days' time. ...If that is what you want." He added with a knowing look. "I'll have a car waiting to take you home. And Sherlock, do try to have a night in, would you?" With that, he disappeared out the door and left John awkwardly with a peevish Sherlock.

"That was a bit cruel, Sherlock. He was worried about you." John tested the waters, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Worry is one thing," he said while pulling on a sock. "Lording over me with the God complex he has and expecting me to thank him for telling me that I'm virtually incompetent in all aspects is quite another. Had he said a single useful thing to me in all of those words, I could have listened and thanked him. Instead, there was pointless berating meant to knock me down a few pegs, as they say."

John clicked his tongue. He couldn't exactly argue with that, but he seriously doubted Sherlock would ever thank Mycroft for anything. "You ready? I could use a change of clothes, myself." And a cuppa. And some biscuits. Maybe beans on toast. Damn. Now he was hungry. He let Sherlock sweep out the door in front of him and joined him in the back of one of Mycroft's cars.

As much as Sherlock would have preferred a ride in the back of a London cab over a black Sedan, he was surprisingly quiet through the ride back to the flat. Out of the car without so much as thanks when they arrived, he opened the street door and headed up the seventeen steps to 221B. At least he'd left the street door open for John instead of shutting it. With a sigh, he flopped onto the couch, retrieved the pilfered journal from his coat without removing it and opened it to start his research. Out of the infirmary bed and into the fire.

John looked after the detective as he went quickly into the building, closing the car door with a "Ta mate," he followed Sherlock into the building and up the stairs. He shut the door and stood a moment, watching the man lying on the couch. Frowning, John checked his pocket where he had placed the journal. Sherlock must've pickpocketed him at some point. Damn him. "Try to leave some of the healing bits unread, would you?" He went into the kitchen and started toast. Two more days. He could manage two more days. Sherlock hadn't abused the geis too badly and it _had_ saved the man's life...

Smirking, Sherlock held the journal up. He'd been leafing through the blank pages to put the text in his head with each page, seeing if perhaps it would put the words and pictures back. It didn't. Out of his coat came another book, decaying and bound in old leather. Much smaller than the journal. This he began leafing through next, scanning over ages old handwriting.

John returned with two cups of tea and two plates of toast and jam balanced along his arms. He set one of each on the low table by Sherlock and looked at the book the other man was reading," What's that one now?" John grabbed the journal and sat in his own chair, deciding to finish eating before starting in on the journal again.

Sherlock left the toast untouched but picked up the tea and sipped at it while flipping the page. "A small tome older than our great-grandparents and filled with what is hopefully more knowledge of spell casting and focusing energies."

"And this one doesn't disappear?" John asked around a mouthful of toast. He took a swig of tea and swallowed. "What exactly are you hoping to do with it? You don't think you could get rid of the geis do you? 'Cos even the witch seemed hesitant." Seeing Sherlock's look, John hurried to explain himself, "I mean, it's not that I don't trust you but...we did _just_ find out about all this..." He trailed off and focused on his tea instead of the man across from him.

"Exactly why I need to do more research. Mycroft will make good on his word to take the geis away, I'm unconcerned with that. No, I'd rather learn everything about magic and spell casting that I can now."

John gave a short nod and returned to his toast and his own thoughts. Mycroft had said he would have the geis removed _if_ John still wanted it removed. _If_. With a little frown John realized that it was only because of the geis that Sherlock was still alive. Then a sudden thought hit him and he froze, horrified. If Mycroft hadn't had him followed, Sherlock would have died. There had been too much blood lost, even in the time it would've taken for an ambulance to get to them—it would've been too late. Jesus. Shaking his head to chase away images of Sherlock's blood drained corpse, John put his toast down, his appetite gone.

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye and then glanced up from the tome once to scan him. Back to the tome. "Do you honestly think it would be worth it in the long run to keep the geis? I haven't ever been known to take things in moderation, especially when I can take advantage of them." John was agonizing over the what-might-have-beens. He could see it.

Startled out of his thoughts, John turned to the detective, "I am well aware of that, Sherlock. Believe me. But..." the image of Sherlock lying beaten on the ground of the alleyway flashed across his eyes. "But it saved your life."

"I admit that I don't remember much of what happened. There was a group of five... I remember your arrival... and then nothing up until waking."

"I was talking with Mycroft and then he said you had gone somewhere other than grocery shopping," John raised an eyebrow, "so I started to head back here, hoping you would return soon. Then-" he interrupted himself, frowning, "in the back of the car, my head started hurting, spasms of pain and I...I told the driver to turn and the pain eased..." John shook his head, "I don't really understand it, Sherlock, but the geis lead me to you. I _knew_ you were in trouble and it led me and Mycroft right to you. You...you would have died otherwise. I didn't have the time or the necessary materials and, to be honest, that scares the hell out of me. It was too close."

"Interesting." Sherlock looked up from the tome at John's recounting of the geis' effects on him and the events leading up to John finding him. "So you felt physical pain until you became closer to my location? Or...did you instinctively seem to know which way to go?"

"It-uh, well a bit of both actually. The pain eased when I started following the directions in my head," John pointed unnecessarily to his temple.

"Oh." Sherlock flopped back down onto the sofa, resuming his previous posture. "So you saw directions in your head or was it more instinct?"

It seemed like Sherlock wasn't going to address John's fear even though the other man was still steeping in it. For a long moment, he just watched John's expression. Waiting for the fear to transition into something else. When it didn't, Sherlock sighed. "I'm not dead. You can stop looking at me that way."

"I know you're not dead. You're still just as stubborn as always. I just... I kind of agree with Mycroft." He held up a hand to forestall the objection. "You need to be more careful. Or at least stop wandering off on your own."

Another glance up at John that almost became a glare. "Oh yes, let's just put me under house arrest while we're at it. Regardless of what may have happened, I didn't actually go out looking to be nearly killed. I survived and I don't care to discuss it any further." Trying to get past the subject and back to what really mattered, he pushed: "Tell me more about the feelings the geis gives you."

"Damnit, Sherlock, you can't just ignore this. It's more dangerous out there than we thought and we don't know how to fight back yet!" John would have continued had not the command taken over. Perhaps for the best. "It was more instinctual. I felt the need to turn just before I had to. A few times, we had to circle a block because I'd been too slow in telling the driver. It wasn't really a physical pain either, there was no 'one point' where the pain was situated, it just sort of...radiated at me. Once I stopped fighting it, though, it faded and I was able to figure out more or less what was happening." John took a breath. "I'll admit, now that I know the geis will actually help me to protect you, I'm less willing to be rid of it. It's a safety net of sorts and well worth the annoyance of doing what you say."

"I'm not ignoring it. You act like I'm not actively trying to arm myself with the knowledge I need to defend myself against future attacks," Sherlock began after John was finished. "You do a brilliant Mycroft impression, but really, it's useless to chastise me. I will of course be more mindful of my surroundings next time." He had listened to John's description closely, fascinated by the effect of the magic and how it lead John to him.

"The choice of whether or not to keep the geis is ultimately yours, John. Just do not make a decision you will regret."

John laughed, though there wasn't much humor in it. "I'll do my best, Sherlock." Realizing he wasn't going to get anything more out of Sherlock on the topic of his near death experience, John had another question, "Can you check your mind palace for any information the journal had on geises?" He frowned, "Geisi? Geis?" He shook his head, Sherlock knew what he meant.

"Geasa is the plural." Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his hands at his mouth, muttering to himself. It was a few minutes of searching, his hands parting to move as though scrolling through pages on a touchscreen tablet sometimes. "Usually brought upon by deity-like figures, primarily women... punishment if gone against, but strength given if followed...more than one geis can be active at once...it mentions goddesses and figures of high import..."

Frowning, John absorbed this new information. "Do you know what it meant by 'strength given'?" He hadn't noticed anything particularly strengthening about following orders...well. It was sort of a comfort. Back to his days in the Army, it was easy to let one's mind drift and simply do what the commanding officer said. John shook himself out of the memories.

"Hmm...not certain. It implies that following the geis will result in a reward while going against it will entail punishment." Sherlock looked up at the ceiling for a long moment. "And if ever you are faced with an unavoidable issue of having to go against it, the punishment could be severe, including death."

John felt himself go pale. "Death? But I...When would I have to go against it?" He shook his head once, "Nope, I don't want to know. I just won't do that, yeah. Problem solved. Plus," He added, thinking back, "the witch said this was special right? Different because it didn't just reward, it actually compelled? Right? So probably no death." He raised his eyebrows, looking at Sherlock hopefully. He knew the geis could help him save Sherlock's life but if it were to cause his own...

"If I ordered you to kill me, I imagine that would be severe enough," Sherlock stated. "Hopefully it will never come to that. And hopefully our enemies don't find out about this...if they did, it would be a disaster. I can't promise you that there won't be repercussions and death. I'm not the maker of the geis."

Swallowing thickly, John ran through the possibilities in his mind. He grunted to acknowledge Sherlock's words and grabbed the journal again, staring intently at blank pages while he thought. Their enemies. Moriarty. He'd kidnapped John once, who knew what horrendous things he would do if he found out. Shivering involuntarily, John pushed the thought from his mind and recalled again the night before. Presumably, Mycroft could have the geis removed at any time. For now, John decided, it was better to focus on what the geis had proven it could do rather than worry about the possible consequences. Having reached this decision, John turned through the journal until he came upon the script once more. Picking up his pad of notes, the doctor detailed the diagram of a healing circle and its best uses.

"I'll have to stop giving orders, then. Someone will pick up on it eventually and think one of two things about you following my every whim." Still staring at the ceiling, starting to go though some of the rest of the information he'd read in the journal. "...we'll of course need to conceal the fact that we're learning about magic with the intent to practice."

"Wait. Sherlock." John paused in his scribbling. "Intent to practice? One of two things? If you're going to talk aloud, you could at least explain what the hell you're on about." John frowned. No more orders. For some odd reason, his heart dropped a little in his chest.

"Yes, one of two things. They'll either think we're living an alternative lifestyle or that it's related to magic. And the intent to practice magic of course. You and I will be learning it. You have to be at least curious as to whether you can or not."

"Alternative lifestyle..?" John flushed deeply. Good God. "Fine, fine. I understand. And I know you meant practice magic. And yes, I am a bit curious but do you really think it's wise? You were attacked by vampires, quite possibly because you simple knew _about_ magic. What would happen if they knew you intend to learn to _use_ it?"

"Then they would be smart to learn that I intend to use an array of defensive magic as well as offensive. If there are supernatural creatures lurking in the dark because I simply _know_ about magic, I'd like them to know I also can use it in my defense." Back to the small tome, next page.

"Sherlock, you don't even know if you're capable! Don't you think you should slow down a bit?" Really, John didn't want to see his friend build himself up just to fail for the first time in his life. He watched the detective turn page after page in silence.

"Why wouldn't I be capable? A group of five coming to attack me all at once leads me to believe they think I am capable. Perhaps they were even trying to kill me before I had the opportunity to learn."

John shook his head. He hadn't thought of that. "I don't know, Sherlock, I'm not going to pretend I understand whatever rules govern it. I just don't want you to be disappointed." Oh, honesty. John frowned. He was fairly certain he hadn't meant to say that.

"Disappointed? Hardly. If I don't have the capability, I will learn what it takes to utilize magic without whatever latent ability there might be. Or I'll come up with a new method." His arrogance was clear on that point.

Rolling his eyes, John tried to return to his notes but the information about the geis stuck with him. 'Given strength'. That could be supremely useful if anything ever manifested. But if Sherlock was finished giving him orders...And that! What the hell was that ache in his chest? John frowned at the notebook in his hand, making sure to stare at it instead of the journal while he thought.

"John, more tea. I'm cold." Sherlock didn't even look up or apparently realize he'd just ordered John to do something.

"Right," John practically jumped out of his chair. The lightest feeling of warmth went through him. Like walking by a sunny window. He stepped over to the table, grabbing Sherlock's cup and made his way to the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned, setting the tea down in the same place and eyeing the detective's uneaten toast. "You really should eat something, Sherlock. You feel alright now, but that's only because you have healthy blood running through your transport." Despite his words, John was smiling as he sat down in his chair.

"You're suggesting that prior blood running through the transport was unhealthy?" He glanced at the toast, but he didn't want it. Nothing on his stomach while he was trying to think and learn.

"Um, yes, Sherlock. That's exactly what I'm suggesting. Do you want me to order something in?" John saw Sherlock derisive look at the toast. "Sherlock. You need to eat. Doctor, remember?" He tipped a thumb at himself.

"Stop nattering on about eating for right now, John. I'm not hungry." Glued to the tome. Thoughts were swirling and spiraling, mixing and evolving...

Opening his mouth to protest, John realized it was futile. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he felt the sun beam warmth again. He considered calling Sherlock's attention to it, but decided to wait. The detective was clearly too busy to visit at the moment. John took stock of his own feelings. Frustration mixed with contentment. Odd. And almost certainly the geis' doing. John felt the need to interrupt Sherlock once more, "Can you tell me on what page the geasa were detailed?"

"Two-hundred four and onwards." Back into his mind he went, puzzling and spinning...

"Thanks." John flipped quickly through the journal, doing his best not to look at anything other than the delicate page numbers scrawled in the lower outside corners. Finding the page, he stopped and began reading carefully. Everything Sherlock had said was there. The deities, the punishments...he shivered at some of the details outlined. Not nice at all. However, there was next to nothing about the feelings of the person upon whom the geis had been placed. Frustrated, John shut the journal, one finger holding his place. He leaned back in the chair, stretching and felt his shoulder twinge. He'd almost completely forgotten about that. Was it only a couple days ago? Felt like years and years. So much had happened. Staring at the ceiling, John wondered if the journal had a recommendation for the pain.

Sherlock picked up the mug John had made up for him and just held it in his cold hands. One side effect of blood loss he hadn't quite gotten over yet was feeling cold. Nothing some hot tea and deep concentration couldn't fix. He was on a chapter in the tome about ingredients, energy exchange and casting. It read just like a science textbook explaining compounds and chemical reactions.

Tilting his head to look at Sherlock, John watched him read; book settled on his stomach, propped up by his folded legs, tea cup in hands. The doctor smiled and relaxed back into his chair. A sudden chill went through him and he sat up, startled. "What the hell..?" Looking around for a draft, John's eyes landed on Sherlock's form again. His hands were trembling lightly, his jaw set more tightly than usual. "Sherlock, are you still cold?" John asked hesitantly. The geis was getting more intrusive and interesting by the minute. He wondered absently if the changes were a result of the two of them discovering more about how magic worked.

"Mm? Yes. Believe I complained of that earlier. Not important, I have tea." Another page turned, both hands going back to the mug. He hadn't expected to bounce back from catastrophic blood loss in one day, really. It would take a few days for the transport to go back to normal. Hopefully sooner.

John sighed at Sherlock's disinterest and went to his room, pulling off the duvet. Returning, he draped it over Sherlock. Alright, so the geis was going to tell him if Sherlock was hurt or in danger or even just uncomfortable? That could get old. At the same time, at least now John wouldn't have to guess at the distant man's state of well-being. The journal sitting on the side table, John sat in his chair and watched Sherlock again.

Instead of shrugging it off or flinging some sort of petulant insult at John, Sherlock shifted forward and pulled the duvet around himself for a more snug reading environment. Feeling warmer with a blanket and tea, Sherlock's mind was content to absorb more information from the tome he held. At one point, it even seemed like he was concentrating so hard that his eyes were glowing. ...Must have been a reflection of light.

John blinked. He frowned, leaned forward and blinked again. "Umm. Sherlock? What are you reading about right now..?"

Difficult to tell. The handwriting didn't look like it was in English. Sherlock didn't come out of his concentration to answer John. Typical for him, at least.

Standing from his chair, John stepped forward cautiously. Something was wrong. Well, maybe not wrong but certainly not right. Not _normal_. "Sherlock, your eyes..." John placed a hand over the pages of the book trying to catch the man's attention.

Still, he didn't answer. His now glowing eyes were ticking back and forth, lips moving in the subtle formation of phrases. Still typical for him if he was thinking deeply about something...just...not the glowing.

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He grabbed the book from the detective, hoping to break whatever trance he was in. "Sherlock, snap out of it!" John placed a hand on the man's shoulder, then jerked back. He'd been shocked, like a static shock. His eyes wide, John looked from his hand back to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened when John's hand was zapped with a shock and he gasped in a breath, eyes focusing finally on the here and now instead of the halls of the Mind Palace. The glow faded instantly. Irritated at being snapped out of his thoughts, he uttered: "What?"

"What the hell was _that_?" John tapped Sherlock's shoulder hesitantly. There was no shock this time. "No, really, Sherlock, what _was_ that?" He bent down to look at his friend's face. Sherlock's eyes were sharp with annoyance, but the glow was gone.

"What was _what_?" Sherlock sat up a bit more and pulled the duvet around himself tightly. "You've seen me go into the Mind Palace before, really John!"

"Sherlock, your eyes were _glowing_ and you shocked me when I touched you! That's not the same as your usual 'Mind Palace'." John still couldn't say the phrase with any seriousness. "What were you looking for?"

"...What? Really?" He sat up more, getting right into John's face and unmindful of silly concepts like personal space. "Are they glowing now?! When did it start?"

"Yes, really!" John backed up a little, glad at least, that Sherlock was listening to him. "No, they've stopped. It was only about a minute ago, I thought I was imagining it at first..." Curious, the doctor put a hand to the younger man's chin and turned his head slightly, looking intently at any change in eye color. There was nothing but the usual brightness. John felt his ears tinge pink and he released Sherlock, "It's uh-they're back to normal."

Sherlock patiently allowed his eyes to be examined. His brow jumped once when John hastily let him go and colored. Odd. "I'll go back to the spellwork I was thinking about, then. See if it happens again." Sherlock went back to it, half of his concentration in the real world with John this time, half in the Mind Palace where he could pull the script. His lips moved but no sound was uttered... and it started to happen again.

John waved his hands in small gestures. "It's happening again! Here, keep-keep doing whatever it is!" Pulling his phone from his pocket, he took a picture. "Okay, Sherlock, I've got it, you can stop now."

Stopping seemed...off. Something felt wrong when he stopped right in the middle of it. Like there was something stuck in his throat and growing roots into his organs. Seeming alarmed, Sherlock tried to gasp in a breath, but couldn't. He tried to stay calm, staring forward and seeing if the feeling would go away if he didn't fight it. His eyes were still glowing. Something had to give. He couldn't breathe, transport was already starting to panic...

...and then he sneezed, something like an electromagnetic pulse shooting out from his body. He neatly crumpled forward onto the coffee table, gasping. That had been unique.

John felt as much as saw Sherlock's panic. He was about to pull the man up and start a Heimlich maneuver in hopes that it would free him from whatever magic he seemed to be choking on when Sherlock sneezed and a bubble of force shot forward and disappeared into the wall. Supporting the detective, John stared at the place where the pulse had vanished. "Sh-Sherlock, you okay?" He rubbed the man's back, "Just breathe, you're all right..."

"Fine, fine...I'm fine." Just stunned. Releasing such a force with a sneeze! Now he knew it wasn't a good idea to stop an incantation after it had started to build up power inside of himself, anyway-

He'd managed to cast something. He'd produced magic! "John! I can cast! Did you see?!"

"I saw, Sherlock. What was that?" John was torn between pride, jealousy and worry. He was pleased to see Sherlock so excited but felt already lower than his friend. What if Sherlock would get bored with him in his quest for magical knowledge? What if John couldn't cast? And dear God, Sherlock was already trying to blow things up.

"It was an energy summoning. Meant to gather all of one's energies inward...and then out in a sort of blast. Fantastic!" Sherlock was up on his feet probably sooner than he should have been after that excitement, but it didn't seem to deter him. He had the familiar manic gleam on his face that said he was onto something. "The next thing I should work on would be spells that require physical components!" CHEMISTRY! That would of course mean a mess in the kitchen.

"Wait wait wait! Sherlock!" John grabbed the man's arm and pulled him back down onto the sofa. "If that was your energy, then you need to sit down. Your transport was nearly out before! The next thing you should work on is calming down and making sure you're not going to pass out before you make it to the kitchen!" Keeping a firm grip on Sherlock's arm, John's eyes fell to the small book. He picked it up carefully and looked at the page Sherlock had been reading from. "Do you think I can do it too?"

"I have plenty of energy John." True, Sherlock did seem to pull energy out of thin air while he was on cases. "What are you talking about? Of course you could do it." That wicked little smirk was rather foreboding... "Doctors and medicine men are among the most esteemed of magic practitioners. Well, _were_. In the dark ages."

John let go of Sherlock's arm and began reading the book. Or trying to. The words shifted strangely before his eyes yet he understood the meanings. He read silently, the words echoing in his mind and the sitting room faded into the background. Vaguely, he felt Sherlock watching him closely, but John was more focused on the feeling bubbling in his chest. It was warm and strong.

A little too closely. Fascinated, Sherlock watched as a glow entered John's eyes. Such a grand amount of arcane knowledge obtained from such a small book. No matter how many pages were turned, it seemed as though there were hundreds more, each page filled with words, some with diagrams. "Do you see?! Magic was so commonplace and yet so feared in the world that practitioners were shunned after the age of enlightenment!"

John could hear Sherlock talking but the man's words did not seem important. Letting the book drop to his lap, John felt the warmth in his chest and let it flow down his arms into his cupped hands. This was amazing. Marvelous. Unbelievable. It was so _easy_. He knew just what to do, felt the lines of power floating around him and through him, and twitched his fingers just a little to let a small ball of light form above his skin. This was what the witch had done. Had seen. Had used. John felt himself smile widely, glad that he too could take advantage of the magic surrounding him.

Sherlock tilted his head, watching the control John seemed to possess over the energies he manipulated. Really, he would have been jealous, but he was far too fascinated. If John could do this so easily after just one attempt, it would certainly be just as simple for him once he actually concentrated on it. "Brilliant," Sherlock heard himself whisper, eyes fixed on the ball of light.

John closed his hands around the floating light and slowly extinguished it. A thought occurred to him as he felt the energies begin to dissipate. Eyes still glowing softly, John placed his palm to Sherlock's chest and _pushed_. He felt the power leave him and, with a heavy sigh, the doctor slumped back onto the sofa feeling fatigued but very, _very_ happy. Letting out a quiet laugh and tilting his head back, John breathed deeply.

It felt like a tickle. Similar. Like breathing in sunlight, Sherlock's vision whiting out for just a moment and warmth caressing over his skin, inside and out. Invigorated. Content. He felt his heart rate settle into a slow, confident rhythm and his eyelids droop just a bit. This must have been what a cat sitting in a patch of sun felt. "John...that's... that's astounding. How did you do it?"

"I'm not really sure." John turned his head to look at the detective. "Felt right. Now you won't pass out." Smiling to himself, the doctor hummed. He knew he couldn't stop Sherlock from running around doing God knows what, but at least he could make sure his flatmate didn't die of exhaustion in the process. John yawned, he was tired. But it was the kind of tired that felt earned. Like he had worked outside on a hot afternoon, or helped a friend move a sofa out of his third floor flat.

With a surprising amount of care, Sherlock placed the duvet over John. It would feel strange to say thank you for something neither of them really understood. "I'll be in the kitchen. Don't worry, I'll make sure to open a window."

John shifted himself under the blanket and mumbled, "All right, Sherlock. Try not to make a mess, mmkay?" And before he heard Sherlock's answer, he slept.

Time passed.

...

_**KA-BOOM.**_


	9. In Which Sherlock Fails to Hail a Cab

A/N: We're still alive. Imageofmadness was at Tsubasacon last weekend without her faithful blogger but check out her tumblr for pics and video!

**KABOOM.**

Black smoke rolled off from something on the kitchen table that was not on fire nor had it been exposed to any sort of heating element. Sherlock was plastered against the far wall, his very, very confused expression was blackened and his hair blown back. Anything that hadn't been in cabinets or fixed down had toppled over with the force of the blast.

John jerked awake, his heart in his throat, hand reaching for his rifle before he remembered where he was. "Sherlock?!" Stumbling from the sofa and tripping over the duvet, John made his way to the entrance of the kitchen where he froze, staring at the debris that used to be dishes, beakers, and various cooking utensils. His eyes found Sherlock and he rushed to the man, "You okay? Jesus, what have you been doing?"

"I'm...fine." Just confused. Very confused. "I was following a recipe and, well, it didn't turn out." It should have been so simple, though! Very simple chemistry. Confusion turned to a frustrated pout.

John looked around at the smoky kitchen once more before turning back to Sherlock. "Following a recipe? Sherlock, you can't make _toast_. What the hell were you trying to do?" With a sigh, John opened a drawer and pulled out a tea towel. Wetting it under the faucet, he offered it to Sherlock.

"I can make toast, I just refuse." He took the tea towel and started to wipe his face with it. "I was trying to craft a spell following a recipe that was in that journal. Obviously it didn't work. I don't understand why...why? It's all very simple chemistry! There wasn't even a heating element involved or any volatile materials!"

Gesturing at the kitchen again, John didn't bother voicing the obvious. Clearly _something_ had been volatile. "Well, what was it supposed to accomplish? Are you sure you followed the directions correctly?" John rolled his eyes as Sherlock's sour look. "You obviously missed something!"

"I _did!_ Down to the milligram!" Now he was becoming confrontational. "It was intended to grant second sight, not...ugh!" Gritting his teeth in utter frustration and humiliation, Sherlock threw down the tea towel and stomped to the bathroom.

"Sherlock!" Pulling his hands down his face, John stared at the mess and sighed. There was no way he was cleaning this up without a fight. He walked down the hallway and knocked on the door. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I was startled. Would you come out? Tell me what happened, maybe I could help?"

"It. Exploded. That's what happened, John! A very simple concoction with very simple measurements that during the ritual incantation _exploded_. That's what happened!" The sound of running water.

John leaned his forehead against the door. "Okay, so it must've been the incantation. What did you do?" He raised his voice over the water and groaning pipes.

"Voiced the incantation exactly as it was written!" Sherlock's voice was garbled somewhat when he washed his face.

Thinking back to his experiences earlier, John found himself asking, "Did you pull the right strings?"

"What?" The door opened. Sherlock was shirtless with a towel slung across his neck. "What strings?"

"The-uh, the strings...the lines. I don't know. Earlier..." John tried to explain, "Earlier I could feel them. Like an instrument, or… or one of those things used to work puppets. I had to touch the right ones, they each did something different. One for the light, one for the energy..." John trailed off. This was ridiculous. Here he was going on about magic strings and lines of power when a week ago he would have been laughing aloud at the very idea.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Strings." Even more frustrated. "No, there were no strings. I felt energy being focused and then...BOOM!"

"Maybe that's what happened then. You didn't channel it right." John bit his lip. This was almost worse than not being able to do magic; being able to do it _better_ and not explain it properly. "Sherlock, was there anything in the journal about transfers or umm... two people connecting?" Realizing what he said, he flushed suddenly, "I mean, so I could maybe show you what I see..."

"Well, the closest thing I have read so far was connecting to someone's mind while dreaming. There were some more advanced sections on directing someone's actions, but as for connecting two people, I'm not certain."

John nodded, disappointed. "If you come across something in your other book, let me know, alright? Would you like to try the recipe again? Maybe with...with my help?" John didn't want to push the apparent fact that he had a better understanding of magic than his flatmate, but at the same time he really didn't want Sherlock to keep blowing up the kitchen.

"I'll have to gather more ingredients." Sighing, Sherlock closed the door again and went to shower to get the rest of the soot off from himself.

John rolled his eyes and went into the sitting room. He grabbed Sherlock's book from the coffee table and flipped through it, wondering if there was a table of contents, or at least an index of some kind. He stopped at a sleeping spell, interest piqued. This could be useful. He read on… very useful indeed. Easy enough, a few words and a tug at the right line and Sherlock would sleep deeply without dreaming. John frowned, remembering. Much better than the other night. Sighing he continued through, jotting down notes as he found things that interested him.

Sherlock returned, re-dressed like he meant to go back out right then and there. Why not? He felt fantastic other than the frustration and simmering jealousy he felt. How on earth could John be so much better at this than him? So much more attuned! "I'm going to go and gather more ingredients since I burned through a lot there. No use cleaning up the kitchen until after the second attempt in case that one decides to explode as well."

John nodded, intent on the small book. Belatedly he looked up, "Yeah, alright, Sherlock. Could you-uh grab some things for me as well?" John sheepishly held up a small piece of paper with his scribbled writings on it.

Sherlock snatched the piece of paper and looked it over. "...Certainly. Interesting." He stuffed the list into his pocket and nodded, getting his coat and scarf on, grabbing his phone and his wallet. "I'm taking a different route this time. In the case I see a vampire, I'll ring you." He held up his phone to display he had it with him and then was out the door.

Grunting acknowledgement, it was a moment before Sherlock's words sank in. "Damnit!" John shoved his feet into his shoes and raced down the stairs after his flatmate. "Sherlock, the hell you are going anywhere alone!"

"Why? Do you absolve me from competence?" Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Sherlock walked faster so that John would have to have to also walk faster to keep up. He would have preferred to go it alone, but there was no deterring John after last time.

Jogging to catch up, John huffed out a breath and answered sarcastically, "Yes Sherlock, that's why I'm coming with you; not because you nearly died less than twenty-four hours ago." Really, you'd think he was Mycroft the way Sherlock was acting. Oh. _Oh_. Sherlock was more upset about John's ability than he had let on...that's why the mood. "Sherlock, I'm not going apologize for being decent at what we're doing. It's probably only because I have a spell on me that I can feel anything different from you. All right?"

"Why should you have to apologize?" But he didn't look at John and kept walking. "It's rather brilliant, don't you think? The fact that all you have to do it look at a text and seconds later have the ability to cast flawlessly." It was. It really, _really_ was. Sherlock did have to admit to himself that he was amazed by John's abilities in addition to being resentful.

"I shouldn't Sherlock, that's why I'm not going to." John heaved a sigh, "I wouldn't believe it was flawless...I don't even know if it was my work at all, or just the geis stepping in." Sherlock was being childish, but pointing that out would do John no good.

"No, you are going to. There's no reason why you shouldn't." Even if he was resentful, John had a very powerful skill. It shouldn't be wasted. "Geis or not, you have the ability."

Mentally tossing his hands up, John followed the detective, making a face at the man's back. He couldn't win. "Fine, Sherlock. Whatever you want. Where are we going?"

"Hopefully not into a vampire's lair. There's a specialty shop that we're going to be visiting. Very out of the way and inaccessible after a certain distance by taxi. We could hail one now or walk."

John shivered though the air was warm. "Let's get a cab. I don't want to be out here any longer than we have to be. And would you stop talking about vampires? You're giving me goose bumps."

"Very well." Sherlock stepped up to the curb and hailed a taxi the same way he always did, having some sort of magical ability all his own to get the first cab that passed.

Except this time the cab kept going. Sherlock frowned, took a deep breath and recited the law of averages in his head. No matter, he'd just wait for the next one.

Staring as the cab drove by the two of them, John straightened his shoulders and looked around. Something was off.

Sherlock hailed the next cab he saw as well only to have it pass also like it hadn't even seen him. Huffing, Sherlock started walking again. That was never something that happened to him. Never.

John felt again the sudden dread he had experienced the night before. He hissed, "Sherlock, come on. We're going home. We'll get supplies later."

"What? John, don't be ridiculous. We can take the alleys; it will be a shorter distance." Sherlock was too disgruntled to pick up on anything amiss.

"Sherlock. _Now_." John grabbed his friend and tugged him back the way they had come. "Something is wrong."

Sherlock dug in his heels, narrowed his eyes and jerked his arm back from the tugging. "What, just because the cabbies are blind? You can't honestly base a suspicion on that, can you?"

John replaced his grip and continued dragging the detective back along Baker Street. "I'm not basing it off that, I'm basing it off the geis. Now, come. On." John spoke through clenched teeth, his eyes darting around and the dread still heavy in his chest.

"And what are you feeling, John? ...Stop pulling me!" Sherlock was all but ready to fly off into a rage. It had not been a good day for him. "Why are you insisting that we go home right this instant? Upon what evidence do you base your suspicion?"

Releasing Sherlock immediately, John whispered furiously, "We're not safe. I don't know what it is but we need to get back inside. I'm feeling the same feeling I felt last night when you were being attacked. You're in danger, _we're_ in danger, now would you just _listen_ to me?"

"These are the same streets we travel every night. What if every time we venture outside you get this feeling of dread because someone, somewhere is plotting my demise or having ill intent towards us? We would never leave!"

John was about to continuing arguing when a shadow detached itself from the wall behind them and rushed Sherlock. "Get down!" Gun in hand, John fired off two rounds hitting the thing point blank.

Sherlock didn't exactly get down, but he did duck and brace himself. If there was one shadow he'd need to be sharp in case there were more. For some reason, though, his senses felt dull. Usually he could sense someone watching or following him but today he was only aware of what he could see. What was wrong with him...?

"John! Behind y- !" There had been another one behind John. Sherlock had been unaware that there was yet another until he found himself slammed into a brick wall, reeling. He tried to see around the shadow that had gotten to him to see if John had been attacked.

Hearing Sherlock, John turned quickly and fired again. What were these things? Is _this_ what happened to Sherlock? John's frantic mind decided that they didn't look much like vampires. Or at least not what he expected vampires to look like. Turning, he found Sherlock pinned against the wall and lowering his gun, John took a deep breath and muttered the phrase he had memorized to help Sherlock, then, eyes glowing brightly, he put a hand on the shadow and it collapsed into unconsciousness.

John stumbled a little as the glow left him and fatigue washed over him. "Sherlock…Sherlock, are you all right?" He grabbed at the man and made a face as his hands came away thick with a viscous goo. "What the..?" John peered closer and realized the substance wasn't actually corporeal. He tried to brush it away from Sherlock's face, only to have it flow back into place around the detective. "Come on Sherlock, let's go." He put the taller man's arm over his shoulders and helped him back to 221B.

"I'm..." Oh...oh, vertigo. He was going to say that he was fine, only stunned but... where had this come from? He heard a high pitched hum in his ears and when he looked up again, John had helped him halfway up the steps already. He hadn't really been injured. Bruises at his back and maybe a bump on the back of his head, but nothing that would cause this. "John...John, what's...what's happening..."

"I'm not sure, magic. I'll fix it Sherlock, just stay calm. Stay awake." John hauled him the rest of the way up the stairs and set him on the floor by the sofa. Kicking the coffee table away, he then ran into the kitchen and grabbed a large bag of salt from Sherlock's ill-fated trip the night before. Spilling it in a large circle around Sherlock, John grabbed the small tome and stepped inside the circle, crouching down and flipping through the pages furiously.

"That's always your answer..." Stay calm. Stay awake. Sherlock stared at the ceiling and watched the shadows creep around, almost certain that he was hallucinating them. He felt drugged. His vision blacked out for a moment and when he came to again, he looked at John's face and thought he saw electric blue lines in the air. Still hallucinating. "John..." He couldn't help it. He blacked out just as a shadow dripped down from the ceiling to perch behind John outside of the salt circle.

Shit, shit, _shit_. John found the chapters on healing, but there was nothing like this described. Then he saw it: a cleansing spell. Perfect. He glanced through the needed supplies and felt his heart drop. Looking up, he saw the shadows swarmed around the circle. His eyes darkening with determination, John set his shoulders. He would manage without the ingredients. The doctor read the words to himself, then read them again aloud, one hand on Sherlock's chest and the other on his forehead through the goo that was not there. Feeling the lines thrumming with energy, John followed one of them to Sherlock and flicked it carefully. The cloud of magic surrounding his friend dropped away suddenly and John took a deep breath. He repeated the exercise a few times, making sure everything was clear and that Sherlock was breathing deeply. The exhaustion hit John and he collapsed over the detective. Still outside the circle the shadows hissed in anger, flurrying together and disappearing, leaving the two men alone in their flat surround by salt.

When John awoke next, he was still on the floor, though Sherlock was no longer under him. Instead, he was supported by pillows and covered with the duvet. There was an even larger salt circle around him...and around Sherlock, who seemed to have given up on being stubborn and subscribed to John's methods. He was curled up behind John on top of the duvet, dozing with the book in his hand.

Blinking away the tiredness he felt, John sat up and put a hand to Sherlock. "You okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock turned over to face John, scanning him. "Are you?"

John took a moment to check himself over. "Tired. Very tired. Very hungry." He looked around the flat. "How long was I out? Are you sure you're feeling alright? Do you know what happened?"

"Approximately five hours." Sherlock sat up and stretched, demonstrating that he was as fine as he said. "I'm not certain what happened. I recall trying to hail a cab and failing...and then waking up with you atop me and with the distinct feeling that I should not leave this salt circle. I widened it."

"We were attacked. By what, I'm not sure." John frowned as he remembered. "There were at least three of them. Dark shadows. I shot two, knocked one out, then got you up here. You had some sort of spell on you. I don't know when it happened, but I think it was hiding us from other people. And it was certainly messing with you." He eyed the detective, still not sure if he could trust the man to tell the truth about his well-being. "I-I managed to get rid of it, or at least, I think I did."

"Someone very much doesn't care for us." Ignoring John's scrutiny, he rose and stepped carefully out of the salt circle and into the disaster area of a kitchen. "We don't have much in. What would you like?" What Sherlock hadn't revealed yet was his current hypothesis: that he would have been useless to a magical being. It was John they must have been after. Not enough data to reach a conclusion.

"Sherlock! Are you sure you should be out there?" John stumbled to his feet and hesitated at the edge of the circle. "I don't care, anything. Biscuits? Crisps? An apple?"

Raiding the cabinets, Sherlock produced packets of crisps, two apples and a banana. Casually, he made his way back into the salt circle. "Not to worry, John." Crouching, he handed the food items over. "The entire time you've been unconscious, I've seen nothing."

Nodding his thanks, John dove into the food. Worries forgotten as he strove for a full stomach. "We need to tell Mycroft. He'll know what they are and why they want you." John mumbled around his food. He offered the banana to Sherlock, "You should have something too and don't tell me you've already eaten because I know you haven't."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Peel it for me." Again, neglecting to mention his hunch that it may have been John they were after.

John rolled his own eyes in response but enjoyed the sunshine feel as he did as Sherlock asked. He handed the fruit to Sherlock and watched the other man until he took a bite. Pleased, John gave a short nod and went back to his own food.

"I hate these," Sherlock commented, peeling the little strips of bitter off from the fruit. "They have such a strange texture." He popped as much of it into his mouth as possible at once to be finished with it more quickly.

"If you had told me, I would've given you an apple." John swallowed. "What were you thinking about earlier? And you didn't answer; don't you think we should tell Mycroft?"

"You didn't phrase it as a question; I didn't feel obligated to answer. And apples are tedious." Another sigh. "Don't you think it's a bit strange, John? Whatever they were, they were trying to make certain that I was incapacitated." He waited to see if John followed the line of thought or had a different opinion. Sherlock didn't like to speculate without evidence.

Snorting, John listened to Sherlock and paused in his eating. "You're doing that thing. You know I hate it when you do that."

"All right. What do you believe they were trying to accomplish?"

"I imagine they were trying to either kidnap you or kill you. I don't know why. Possibly something to do with Mycroft." He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, "What do _you_ think they were doing?"

"Not certain. Not enough evidence to suggest anything other than wanting me or wanting me dead –except - curious that they didn't try to incapacitate you first."

John frowned. "They probably would have, the geis just gave me an advanced warning." He looked up at his friend for confirmation, "...that's not what you think though."

"Even without a warning. They had me before they touched me. I felt it." It was slowly coming back to him. "...don't you find it odd? Maybe I'm not the one they were after."

Sherlock's conclusion dawned on John. "You-you think they were after _me_? Why on earth...?" He relaxed his hand onto his knee, staring at the apple as if it had betrayed some secret they shared. "Why would they want _me?_"

"Because, perhaps, you have something powerful weaved into your very soul. I have nothing to offer them in that respect, that is, unless they were trying to get to Mycroft or trying to use me to get to you."

John felt cold all of a sudden. "You think they want me because of the geis? Because of the power it carries?" John stomach twisted in on itself and he tried to cover his realization. He would have to leave. That was the only way Sherlock would be safe.

"That's the hypothesis. The problem is I don't have the evidence to support it fully. They may want both of us." Sherlock saw the look on John's face and went through John's usual line of thinking... "...meaning we need to stay together."

Nodding, John wasn't listening to Sherlock at all. He was planning. He'd have to talk to Mycroft. Leave a note, maybe. John shook himself back to the present. "Okay, so where do we go from here?"

"You should go to bed." Sherlock offered John a hand to pull him up with. "I'll think of something and send a message to Mycroft."

Covering a yawn, John shook his head, " 'ot 'unna leave you again."

"Would it make you more comfortable if I stayed in the room with you?"

John couldn't work up the energy to blush, so instead, he nodded. "Have you slept much? 'Cos I learned a new trick..."

A new trick? One that would let Sherlock stay awake while staying perfectly rested? "A new trick?" Helping John up and taking the canister of salt, he led them to Sherlock's bedroom, dragging the duvet along.

"Mmmhmm..." John waited until Sherlock had finished the salt circle. "Would you like to see?"

"Certainly. You've done nothing but impress me with your abilities thus far."

John smiled at the praise and patted the spot next to him. Sherlock climbed up and sat. "Ready?" If John had been more awake, Sherlock would've noticed the glint in his eye or the slightest twitch of a smirk.

As it was, John was too tired to give anything away.

Sitting cross-legged much like a boy about to be told a story, Sherlock nodded. He had every intention of going back to reading the book once John had shown him the trick and then gone to sleep.

John hummed a little and then thought back to the words. He said the phrase in a sing-song tone, then placed his palm on Sherlock's forehead and the younger man immediately dropped into a deep sleep. Smiling contentedly, John pulled the duvet over them both and adjusted Sherlock so the long-limbed man was lying more comfortably. Then, the doctor huddled into his detective and fell back to sleep.

Dead to the world entirely, Sherlock acted as John's personal space heater. With his brain completely switched off like an old TV set, it was difficult to say when he would wake up or if a magic reversal would be needed to get him awake. The good news was, whenever he did wake up, he would be well rested.


End file.
